


On the Side of the Angels

by EPS (Lillian_Shepherd)



Category: Garrison's Gorillas
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-29
Updated: 2011-11-29
Packaged: 2017-10-26 16:40:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lillian_Shepherd/pseuds/EPS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the war draws to a close, the Gorillas are sent on one last mission, to the heart of Berlin. But this time it is not the Germans who will cause them the greatest grief, or force Garrison into choices that no man should have to make.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Side of the Angels

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story with adult themes, set in World War 2, with all that that implies about violence and language.

The man who had worn so many masks that even he had come to think of himself as "Actor" stared out through the car window, watching the deepening twilight lay a kindly blanket over the ravages the tank battalions had perpetrated on the innocent French countryside.

He had given up trying to cat-nap, too troubled by his ambivalent feelings about the possibility that this was to be their last mission.

Of course, if their plane hadn't been diverted to transport a group of visiting Washington politicians, and if they'd managed to get their hands on a car with less difficulty, and if it hadn't taken an age to confirm the new arrangements were in place, they'd probably already be in the skies over what was left of Nazi Germany. Maybe he should be grateful. He'd gotten the impression that this was going to be a tough one. Another tough one.

"Are we the only suckers fighting the bleeding war?" Goniff had wanted to know, when Garrison had briefed them. Not that their second-storey man seemed to be worrying about it now. He was sitting up front, next to Casino, criticising his friend's driving in a Cockney accent that was becoming more blatantly exaggerated as the evening wore on.

In fact, despite his frequent complaints about the quality of the road, Casino was driving with great competence. For one of America's most skilled specialist safecrackers he was astonishingly versatile; wheelman, explosives expert, an increasingly skilful conman, and even, on one memorable occasion, brewmaster...

If he avoided the temptations posed by his large and nefarious family, there was just a chance he might try to go straight after the war.

If they lived to the end of the war. They were almost certainly the only Special Forces unit with their particular skills in this – or any other – theatre and no doubt the Brass, in the form of General Meacher and possibly even Eisenhower himself, were determined to squeeze all the advantage they could out of their strange bargain with a quartet of convicts. Nor would they be sorry if they didn't have to fulfil their part of the deal and parole them back into society. Perhaps they'd feel a twinge of conscience if Garrison was killed along with them, but junior infantry officers, however brilliant, weren't exactly in short supply.

Actor risked a quick glance at the reason he didn't want the war to end – looking at him was always a pleasure – despite the fading light. Sandwiched between Actor and Chief, who was maintaining a characteristic silence, Garrison appeared to be dozing.

Actor hoped that wasn't just a pose to shut himself away from attempts to draw him into the conversation. He had been tense and sharp-tempered recently and, as Casino had said, "If the Warden gets edgy, we ain't likely to see the end of this war alive."

Part of that was the usual Casino pessimism, but the atmosphere within the team – taken, as it always had been, from its leader – had certainly changed. A year, even six months ago, they'd still occasionally had... well, fun, even on missions. He would cherish the memory of their personal crime wave in Steingart, or that ridiculous caper in Lisbon where Goniff had impersonated a British aristocrat, for the rest of his life. Even now, the memory of Garrison's performance as a Syndicate boss – calling the local German espionage chief "Pops", indeed! – made him chuckle.

Recently, though, he found himself missing the flights of fancy that had once made working with Garrison such an exhilarating experience.

Even relaxed in sleep new lines and shadows made his face look ten years older than that of the young Lieutenant who had bounced into Actor's cell in Alcatraz only two and a half years before.

He's exhausted. Bastards at Allied Intelligence push him too hard.

Behind the West Point-trained efficiency, Actor knew, lay humour and sensitivity and kindness. He'd experienced them all, as often as the relentless will that he guessed was close to shearing away from pure fatigue.

"What t' Hell -? Stop!"

Automatically, Casino stepped on the brakes, slewing the vehicle to a halt on the tank-track chewed road. The squeal of tyres was followed by louder squeals of protest from both driver and front seat passenger, counterpointing each other in their New York and Cockney accents.

"Christ! As if this goddamn Frog road wasn't bad enough—"

"Blimey, mate, don't do that. I nearly went through the bleeding windscreen."

"What the Hell were you trying to do, Indian? Get us all fucking killed?"

The quiet question, "What is it, Chief?" from the centre of the rear seat killed the complaints.

"I heard somethin'," Chief drawled, as if that was all the explanation that was necessary.

"I can't hear nothing. Say, Warden..."

"Turn off the engine," Garrison ordered.

Actor wound down the nearest window as the engine-grumble died, letting in cool night air carrying the scents of Spring and animal sounds.

The silence stretched.

Chief leaned forward, his dark head cocked, boyishly handsome face unreadable. For Chief, the end of the war would also mean the end of his current outlets for violence and of his association with the man whose weapon he had become. Actor wondered if he had developed enough self-discipline to tame his instincts away from Garrison's control. If not, he was headed for Death Row.

Casino tapped fingers silently on the wheel rim, a possible sign of incipient explosion. Goniff huddled down in the stolen flying jacket from which he was nowadays rarely parted, the yellowed sheepskin almost the same colour as his untidy hair. Like Casino, he wanted nothing more than the promised parole, to return to civilian life and, again like Casino, would no doubt be in jail again within a year, unless someone took both in hand.

Only one man really qualified.

Chief said: "You hear that, Warden?"

"Yes," said Garrison.

Even as his voice fell into the silence, Actor heard it too, faintly on the wind.

A scream.

Human. Maybe man, maybe woman. Actor had heard too many to have any belief left that you could distinguish anything except terror or pain. This had contained both. Yet the front lines were a whole country away from this part of France, deep in German territory – unless the Allied advance had gotten so tangled in red tape that it had ground to a halt, which would not surprise him.

He scrambled out of the car, Garrison right behind him, Chief decamping from the other door then circling to join them.

"I didn't 'ear nothing," Goniff complained.

"You and Casino stay here," Garrison ordered, reaching back into the car to retrieve two flashlights. He threw one to Chief. "Where?"

"This way." Chief set off into the night.

Trusting his Amerindian senses far more than their own, Garrison and Actor followed.

 

They came to a halt with the path. To their right was a wooded hill, while to their left the land dipped, perhaps into a valley. There was no sound except the usual night noises.

"You want me t' take the wood, Warden?" Phrased as a question, all three men knew that Chief would take exception to any answer but the one he received.

"Okay," Garrison agreed. "But be careful—" The phrase was spoken to emptiness.

"He can take care of himself," Actor said, in reassurance, though he knew Garrison was as aware of that as he was and that it wouldn't stop either of them worrying.

"Let's hope we can," Garrison said gruffly. He led the way off to the left, and Actor fell in behind him.

It was a valley. When Garrison switched on the flashlight for a moment, the beam glittered on water at its base. He stopped, looking to left and right for a lead. "There's a light."

Actor raised an eyebrow, though he knew Garrison could not see it. "No local Blackout?"

"If there is it's unobserved. Come on."

As he followed him, Actor began to consider what rôle he might need to adopt to back his play. A high-up civilian perhaps. Red Cross observer – he hadn't done that one before. Swiss, of course. On the other hand, maybe all that would be needed would be simple muscle. He was tall enough and wide enough to provide that, too, if necessary.

 

The light turned out to be a fire, burning in a brazier just inside the remains of a barn. The walls had been shot to pieces. So had two cows and a donkey. Around the fire were clustered half a dozen men in US Army uniform, including a bull-necked individual with a Sergeant's chevrons on his sleeve. They didn't notice Garrison and Actor's approach, being far too occupied with chewing half-burned chicken and watching one of their number shoving the barrel of his Garand between the legs of a naked woman who lay supine on earth wet with blood. The body of a blond man in what looked like German infantry uniform sprawled nearby on the feather-littered floor.

We're supposed to be the good guys...

Even as the thought ran through Actor's mind, Garrison was striding forward into the light. "What the Hell d'you think you're doing, soldier?"

Everyone stilled. All eyes turned to the speaker. They took in Garrison's uniform, the Captain's insignia that had been so long overdue, the fury on his face and in his voice – and, maybe, that his gun was in his holster and not his hand. Actor wasn't sure whether they were experienced enough to recognise the lethal power behind the relaxed combat-ready stance.

Slowly, the man with the rifle straightened, pulling it free of the woman's body with difficulty. The barrel was covered in blood; so was the bayonet at its end.

Actor moved quickly to kneel beside the woman – in truth, little more than a child. Though her eyes were open, they were unfocused. No doubt she saw him simply as a tall shadow, from which she cringed weakly, trailing blood. There was a lot of that. Too much. Far, far too much.

"Your unit, name and serial number," Garrison was demanding. Then, as a red-faced man began to edge away, "You, stay where you are. I'll get around to you in a minute."

"Now, lissen here, Captain."

"No, you listen. You are all under arrest for rape..."

"Murder and torture," Actor added. "There's little we can do for the girl, Captain, and the boy was tortured to death." He hoped that Garrison had not seen the gouged-out eyes or the castrated organs ground into the dirt, but he doubted it. The Warden missed nothing.

"The cunt's a fucking collaborator. She was—"

"Your unit, names and serial numbers," Garrison repeated inexorably.

"Sir." That was the Sergeant. "May I remind the Captain that we're here to kill Nazis."

"May I remind you of something called the Hague Convention. The same Hague Convention that's kept our men alive and fed inside POW camps."

"But he was a fuckin' Nazi!" That was the youngest and most powerful of the soldiers, the one who had been violating the girl, a fair-haired, baby-faced kid who had probably spent his summers wrangling cows, whatever that entailed – Actor was a little hazy on agricultural matters – and building muscles to match. He was taller and heavier than Garrison, who himself topped six feet. Actor, four inches taller, was tempted to move to back him, but decided against it. The Warden wouldn't welcome his interference with Army discipline.

"You're a Nazi too, soldier," he was saying now, "in every damn way that counts. The difference is, he didn't have much choice about it. And you gave the girl no choice at all. Which leaves me with none. Every one of you will face summary Court Martial on—"

"Yeah, capital charges. You don't think anyone really cares about a fucking Nazi and a fucking collaborator." The Sergeant spat at Garrison's feet. "You ain't going to arrest no-one. You and that fancy civilian buddy of yours have the choice of forgetting all about this or..." He smiled, and lifted his carbine.

There was a stirring in the ranks suggestive of mutiny. "He's an officer—" someone protested.

"So?" Emboldened, the farm kid advanced on Garrison, rifle still held loosely in one huge paw. "He's a Nazi lover, not a real American. If he's so concerned about the bitch I say let's send 'em both to join her."

We're in trouble, Actor thought.

"Real American? I'm ashamed to be in the same Army as you." Deliberately, Garrison turned away from the cow-wrangler to the Sergeant. "I asked for your unit, your names and serial numbers. Or do you want insubordination and mutiny to be added to the charges?"

The cow-wrangler lunged with the bayonet an instant before the Sergeant raised his carbine.

Two against one, and no choice at all. Garrison side-stepped the first bayonet thrust, twisting the wrist that held it and putting the man's body between him and the Sergeant. The cow-wrangler yelled and cursed, clutching the injured wrist with his other hand and aiming a wild kick at where Garrison had just been.

Unfortunately, the evasion took Garrison too close to the Sergeant who, unable to aim his carbine, smashed the stock at his face. It caught him on the edge of the jaw, sending him reeling, but not before his boot had connected with the Sergeant's kneecap.

For the first time, the bystanders remembered their guns. Actor pulled the Luger from his shoulder-holster as he saw the rifles turning towards Garrison.

Too late.

The heel of Garrison's hand slammed up into the Sergeant's chin, knocking his head back with a snap that broke neck bones.

Actor fired once, shifted aim...

One of the cow-wrangler's kicks finally connected with Garrison's hip. The Captain fell and rolled, coming back to his feet a pace away, his legs straightening like springs, driving the clenched fist under his opponent's ribs, finding the nerve centre in a blow that killed.

Actor fired again, knowing that two kills were not enough, that he'd misjudged it, that he could not turn in time to take out the last man, that Garrison was going to die and it was his fault—

The final soldier's face took on a look of surprise. Slowly, he pitched forward into the mud.

Chief walked out of the darkness to retrieve his knife, cleaning it on the dead man's shirt before folding it and slipping it back into its wrist-sheath.

Garrison stood looking down at the men he had killed, wiping blood from his lips with the back of his hand.

It had all happened so quickly that they had not had time to think of the consequences. Reflex had taken over. The result was carnage.

The silence was broken by a horrible, gurgling cough. Even Chief jumped.

They'd been sure the German boy was dead, but the cough had come from his direction and blood was flowing freely from his mouth. As Garrison went down beside him, words followed, though he had to lean close to his mouth to hear him, his knees almost touching the still-living entrails that spilled from the bayonet wound in the boy's stomach.

"They can't hurt her anymore, my friend. They're dead," Garrison replied, in German. "Yes, all of them... Shhhh... She will be fine."

Actor could no longer feel the faint pulse in the woman's neck. He rose and crossed to squat beside Garrison, who was holding the young German's hand, speaking softly to him in his own language as he writhed and cried out for his mother, and begged for release.

"Let me, _Herr Hauptmann_ ," Actor said, also in German.

Garrison shook his head. He took the Luger from Actor's hand, put the barrel under the boy's jaw, and pulled the trigger.

In the silence that followed, Actor was paralysed. It was Chief who dropped a hand on Garrison's shoulder. "You shoulda let me do that, Warden."

Garrison's head lifted. His face was ashen. "Not your responsibility, Chief. Or yours, Actor. You're not Army." His voice, always soft, dropped almost to a whisper, "But thank you, all the same."

"Warden, we gotta get outa here."

"No, someone ought to be told. We—"

Actor was also beginning to see the consequences: they were appalling. "He's right," he said, grabbing Garrison's arm and hauling him to his feet and into the night. "All you've got to back your story are two convicts whose word no-one's going to accept. You know that, Captain. They got what they deserved. Leave well alone." He looked back at Chief, whose black eyes were Space cold, Hell cold, and gave a small jerk of his head towards the bodies. Chief nodded, once. That was enough reassurance for him to be able to turn all his attention back to Garrison. "We have a mission, remember?"

"Sure... Yeah, I guess so."

Behind them, Chief was making a quick tour of the bodies, collecting dog tags. They would go into the nearest deep water. Just before he left, he kicked the brazier into what remained of the feed store.

 

"What happened?" Goniff asked, as the three of them resumed their places in the rear of the car.

"Nothing," Actor said.

"We heard shots."

"Actor got jumpy. Killed a fox," said Chief, laconically. "Must've been what we heard earlier."

Garrison said nothing, just tapped Casino on the shoulder. The car engine coughed to life.

Through the trees, Actor could see fire. His eyes met Chief's, finding acknowledgement. With the evidence burned, they could forget it. Except that he didn't think Garrison would.

 

Berlin was little more than a heap of rubble. Actor, who had known the city in its glory days before the war, appeared so stunned by what he saw that he had not spoken half a dozen unnecessary words since they had driven their stolen vehicle through the defence lines that morning.

Garrison had found that a relief. Actor's attempts at conversation had been one more cross that he had had to bear during their flight into the shattered heart of the dying Reich.

Even this so-called safe house was hardly more than three walls and a section of ceiling. Casino was bedded down on half a sofa in what had once been the front parlour, while Chief and Goniff were on guard above. The kitchen had no gas, no electricity and no water. The only intact pieces of furniture were a couple of wooden chairs and the pine table, once bleached with much scrubbing, but now heavily stained. At least these allowed him to sit and rest his aching head on his hand. His jaw was throbbing where the gun butt had caught it.

Nothing in this city was quiet. The artillery barrage was a continuous drumming, the buzz of the aircraft engines its descant, punctuated by the deeper rumble of the bombs.

Please God it would all be over soon, he thought dully. Not, he suspected, that he would see it. This was not the first time his team had been sent on what looked like a suicide mission, but it was the first time he could not see the point of what they were supposed to do.

Actor had, by some means Garrison did not want to fathom, found a cheval mirror that was only cracked, not broken – probably the only one in the entire city – and was preening himself in front of it.

Vain bastard.

Not, of course, that he didn't have something to be vain about. It was difficult for any man to look unhandsome in SS uniform, but if Actor had been blond and blue-eyed instead of dark, Hitler would have snapped him up for a recruiting poster. The shining knee-boots and spotless breeches made his long legs seem even longer and the jacket sat to perfection on shoulders wider than they ought to be. All that, and charm, intelligence and sophistication to go with it – and also not a single moral scruple, Garrison reminded himself.

I'm a fine one to talk about morals. How many men have met death at my hands? Hundreds, certainly. So why do I feel so outraged... why so willing to kill my own countrymen...?

They deserved it.

Yeah, Craig Garrison, executioner.

As if it mattered... as if anything mattered.

Strong hands fell on his shoulders from behind. He hadn't seen Actor move from the mirror, but he recognised his touch. As always recently, it set warmth gathering in stomach and groin.

A shocking and unwelcome temptation, this new reaction to Actor, but at least his perverted thoughts remained private.

"That's good," he said, as neutrally as he could, as the powerful fingers massaged tense muscle.

"Then take off your shirt and let me do it properly."

"Actor..."

"Don't tell me you're shy?"

Garrison twisted his head far enough to see Actor's smile, and managed a faint one in return. "What d'you think?" Unable to explain the reasons for his reluctance, he stripped to the waist, hung his shirt and shoulder holster over the back of his chair, then folded his arms on the table top, rested his head on them, and let Actor get on with it.

It felt very good.

Another skill he hadn't known this strange man possessed.

After a while, Actor said, "There was nothing else you could have done."

Mind reader too.

"They were our own troops," he explained dully.

"They were the sort of bastards who have fatal accidents, even in jail," Actor said. "All armies have men like them. You know that."

"Yes, I know."

"And, even if we aren't always the good guys, we're still on the side of the angels, Captain. You've seen enough to know that, too."

"A just war," Garrison said, with a twist to his mouth he was glad Actor couldn't see. "But I don't have to like the way we're finally winning it."

The pathetic refugees on the roads, the war-shattered towns, the sight of Dresden from the air as they'd flown back to England only a few months ago – Actor would remember that, he'd been speechless with fury – the bodies of the young woman and her mutilated German lover...

Matched against the pogroms, the horror of Buchenwald – only the first circle of Hell, as he knew from the latest Intelligence reports – the villages he'd seen burned, the civilians slaughtered because they had dared to resist, the bombing of Coventry and London...

"All you did was save our lives," Actor said. "That's all we can keep on doing now, saving our lives."

I may not even be able to do that.

How could he tell Actor what he suspected? That Allied Intelligence would rather they didn't return.

 _"... destroying the contents of the safe is a job for your men, Captain Garrison. And perhaps you feel you can trust them well enough now to go in alone..."_

You go to Hell, Meacher.

The massage had gentled almost to a caress. Garrison could feel himself drifting into sleep.

"Warden?" Actor's voice was a whisper.

Too tired to answer.

 

Actor reached for his greatcoat and draped it over the naked shoulders, lingering with his fingers on the exquisite line of neck and collar bones that had first stirred him, before he had learned to love the man for what he was, not how he looked.

The thought of kissing him there – or anywhere, come to that – kicked painfully into his already tightly-constricted erection.

He turned away, digging his carefully-manicured nails into the palms of his hands, breathing slowly and deeply. Not now. Soon, within weeks, maybe, when the risk of being summarily shipped back to jail, locked away from even this contact, had gone, he'd put the plan he'd been working on for over a year into effect. It had to be perfect, leave Garrison no choice... Right now, though, his job was to keep them both alive so that he had that chance either to outrage his unit commander or, if he'd read him right—

"Warden, we got trouble," Goniff announced from what had once been the door.

Actor glared at the all-too-chirpy Cockney. "Can't you see—"

"What is it, Goniff?" Garrison asked, the big Colt automatic already in his hand.

"Some geezers just arrived with the biggest bleeding tank you ever laid eyes on. They're setting it up in the ruins of the shop on the corner, camouflage nets and the whole works."

"They're expecting the Russians to call any day now," Actor said, watching Garrison shoulder his way into his shirt with absent appreciation.

"It could be a break," Garrison said, with the first sign of animation he had shown for some time. "Get Casino and Chief, Goniff. Well, go on," he added, as Goniff stared at him with a suspicion born of having heard that tone too many times before. "And when you get back I'll tell you how we'll play it."

 

"I don't see what's so bloody important about this safe," Goniff grumbled.

"You don't have to," Garrison said. "Casino, you got your papers?"

"Of course I got my papers. The question is, have you lost your marbles? Burgle the German Foreign Office!" Casino was working himself up into one of his rages. "Just like that. Why don't we bump off Hitler while we're about it?"

"If you see him, you have my permission to shoot," Garrison told him lightly, trying to defuse the situation.

"It wouldn't make any difference now," Actor said. "Surrender's only a matter of time – and not much of that. Which is why, Captain, I am also interested in just why we are doing this."

So was Garrison, but now was not the time to say so. Damn Actor. When he could have done with support, he got questions instead.

"We're just following orders," he told him.

"Like the fuckin' SS."

"Can it, Casino," Garrison snapped, losing patience. His head still ached, and secretly agreeing with the comment didn't help his own temper. "You've precisely five minutes to get into position. Move it."

 

Actor let the others get out of what remained of the room before he voiced his feelings. "Captain," he said, trying to keep his voice as calm as possible. "I still think I—"

"For the last time, no," Garrison snapped. "I go in, you run the interference."

"Warden, you're good. You ought to be – I trained you – but, with all respect, when it comes to working a con—"

"I'm not in the same league as you. Yes, Actor, I know, but we still play it my way."

"But—"

"Enough!"

Actor recognised that the anger was not faked and, despite his qualms, subsided.

There was still something odd about it though. Garrison believed in the right man for the right job. And Actor was the right man in the wrong job this time.

 

Acquiring the "bleeding big tank" – a new mark of Tiger that even Garrison hadn't actually seen before – in the corner shop proved to be less of a problem than might have been feared. Of course, they had become the world's experts on acquiring vehicles with only one thing in common: that they did not belong to them.

Actor simply marched up to the tank and banged on its side until someone appeared. He then ordered the crew out and proceeded to harangue them on the disposition of the nets, the way the gun was pointing, its angle, the fact that – according to him – they had parked in the wrong street in the first place and other sundry matters until their heads were spinning. The success of this ploy had as much to do with the _Sturmbannführer's_ uniform he was wearing as his undoubted command presence.

So well did he confuse the tank crew that they died without hearing anything but his voice.

There was a little more noise as Casino instructed Goniff on how to drive the tank and Goniff ignored him. Garrison let them squabble for a couple of minutes then, figuring they had relieved enough tension, closed the argument down by summoning Casino back into the open air. Actor went inside to supervise Goniff and, after a couple of false starts during which the wrecked building suffered even more damage, the tank trundled down the road towards the Foreign Ministry, Garrison, Chief and Casino riding on its roof.

Just before they turned the final corner, Actor appeared through the hatch, ostentatiously gulped fresh air, then disembarked and strode on ahead, Chief, also in SS uniform, falling in behind him.

Garrison waited until they had disappeared, then shifted position to cling to the ladder on the side of the turret, Casino hanging on just below him.

"Ready, mate?" Goniff called from inside.

Garrison banged the side of the turret. "Take her away!"

At once, the tank jerked forward, gathering speed as it followed Actor and Chief.

 

They had just come abreast of the Ministry, on the other side of the street, when the tank came round the corner at well over thirty miles an hour, and kept on turning. The huge gun swung like a scythe, taking a massive chunk of masonry from the wall of the Ministry, a building already battered by Allied bombing. Plainly misjudging the angle – and please God that Goniff actually was in control, or he would crush Garrison and Casino – it careered through the barbed wire and hit the Ministry wall in a landslide of brick and stone.

The noise was horrendous.

Actor sprinted across the road, yelling at the tank's supposed crew and at the guards on the doors. Windows were flung open and, suddenly, the street was full of people. With relief, he spotted Garrison and Casino, unhurt and lurking at the rear of the throng.

 

Actor was shouting at Goniff using a wonderful vocabulary that meant Garrison had to bite the inside of his cheeks to keep his face straight. He paced up to him and demanded, "What is this, _Sturmbannführer?_ " in tones of fury.

Equally furious, Actor promptly demanded his papers. Garrison meekly handed them over, then let a smirk show as Actor drew a sharp breath, then snapped to attention.

"My apologies, sir. This.... _dumpkoff_ with the tank..."

"I do not have time to waste on trivialities," Garrison asserted. "I trust you can deal with this matter without my assistance."

"Yes, sir." Actor clicked his heels and saluted. " _Heil Hitler!_ "

" _Heil Hitler_ ," Garrison responded, with a perfunctory wave of his arm. "Follow me," he ordered Casino, and marched up the steps into the Ministry.

No-one attempted to stop him. Anyone in civilian clothes who could so frighten a middle-ranking SS officer could only be high-ranking _Gestapo_.

Besides, no-one was looking at him any more as Goniff swung the tank round and back into the road, demolishing even more of the building as he did so.

He had instructions to take his time about it.

 

From inside the building, the damage from the bombs appeared trivial. Garrison led the way briskly down the corridors. Several officials popped out of doors to ask what was going on. Were the Allied bombers targeting the building? Or was it just a lucky Soviet shell?

Garrison demanded to know who they were and why they were still here. Hadn't they heard that the building was no longer safe? Perhaps there had been sabotage, he added, looking at them in a way that showed he suspected all of them of being involved. They should go to the shelters at once.

This worked perfectly until they finally encountered an official with more guts than sense, who ignored the air of _Gestapo_ Garrison was projecting and demanded his papers. Handing them over with an expression of contempt, Garrison waited until he saw that small tensing that meant suspicion, stiff-armed him in the throat, then broke his neck. Casino, meanwhile, hit his companion with the butt of his rifle, hard enough to break his skull.

"That's it," Garrison told Casino, nodding towards the heavy steel door, then he sprinted up the corridor to make sure they had not been heard. By the time he came back, Casino had the door open.

Once they had dragged the bodies inside, the cracksman headed straight for the safe dominating one side of the room. Their orders were to destroy it and its contents, as well as the locked filing cabinets that lined the room.

Why? Garrison wondered. In a couple of weeks our allies will be in this room. What is it we don't want them to see?

"How long to open the safe?" he asked Casino.

Who gave it a contemptuous glance. "That? Two, three minutes. But I thought the idea—"

"Just do it."

Casino gave his commanding officer a very old fashioned look, but obeyed. It took him precisely one minute and forty seconds.

The safe was full of papers; fat, parchment envelopes adorned with embossed crests, a pile of what were apparently treaties, bright with seals, letters held in a bulldog clip. Garrison scooped them out, dropped them in a heap on the table, picked up the first document that came to hand, scanned it, then reached for the second.

"What'cha looking for, Warden?"

Garrison lifted his head, spearing him with a glare. "Set the charge," he ordered.

"Okay, okay, but I sure hope you know what you're doing."

 

Actor picked out three guards and sent them scurrying to arrange scaffolding to prop up the teetering wall. Then he turned on the fascinated spectators and snarled at them to return to their posts.

Oddly enough, when they had done so, the door remained unguarded. Actor sauntered in, Chief at his heels.

"See to the security alarms," Actor ordered, "I'm going to find Garrison."

"Okay," Chief said in cheerful agreement, despite having heard Garrison's instructions to the contrary just as clearly as Actor.

 

It was the signature that drew him first. He didn't have time to read more than a sentence or two, but it was enough to assure him that this was what he had been sent to destroy.

 

When Actor came through the door, he found the safe standing open and Casino lurking beside the door. Garrison was sorting through a collection of legal-looking envelopes and papers. "What the Hell are you doing here?" he asked, without looking up.

"The outside alarms go off in one minute," Actor said, ignoring the question.

Garrison nodded absently. He gathered together all the papers except what appeared to be a bundle of folded letters and shoved them at Actor. "Now you are here, these go back in the safe."

Actor took them from him and hurried to the safe, absently glancing at them as he did so. His eyes widened. Without breaking step, and keeping his back to Garrison – who, most uncharacteristically, wasn't watching – he slid one of the envelopes out of the pile and into his inside pocket. The rest went into the safe. The hand in the pocket came out with a handkerchief and he polished the door with a flourish before closing it and, still using the handkerchief, spun the combination dial, noting, as he did so, that the amount of plastic explosive Casino had attached to the timer would blow up half the building as well as the safe.

And why are we going to all this trouble to blow the safe when Casino's already opened it? Or... why did Casino open it at all, eh?

"Want me to set the timer?"

Garrison was looking at his watch. "Hold it...

The alarms clattered, reminding Actor painfully of his schooldays, when he'd been shunted across Europe from one boarding school to another as the money ran out.

"Now."

Actor twisted the timer dial, then followed Garrison and Casino out of the room. Within seconds he was bellowing orders at bewildered soldiers and civil servants, scattering them in all the wrong directions.

 

They were only just out of the door when the explosion rocked the Ministry on its foundations. Everyone else was running to escape the falling debris, and they ran with them. Not long afterwards, Goniff and Chief joined them. Amazingly, they had completed their mission. All that remained was to get back behind Allied lines.

 

Sitting on the broken stairs of the ruined farmhouse, Garrison read the papers carefully, not once but twice. Then he stared at the pocked limewash for a long time.

"Something wrong?" It was Actor's voice; gentle, deep and full of concern, as he would always remember it.

But what could he say in response?

Until today, I thought I knew what I was fighting for?

"No," he said, folding the papers and moving them covertly so they were hidden under his coat.

Actor's arm fell on his shoulders, comforting and disturbing at the same time, as he settled on the step beside him, making the old wood creak. "I hate to call you a bad liar, Warden, but that did not sound convincing. You need more practice."

He had always been able to talk to Actor, even during those first awkward months; often, recently, he hadn't needed to.

Not this time.

"I'll be glad when this damn war is over," he said, as an unobjectionable gambit.

"You're that anxious to be rid of us?"

He twisted round to look at Actor's face, only inches away, wondering if he was being teased. The severe profile didn't tell him anything but, pressed close as they were by the narrowness of the steps, he knew Actor had not really taken offence.

He tried a half-truth: "That anxious to get the four of you out of this alive."

Actor turned his head to face him, and smiled. "If we don't make it, it won't be your fault." The words blew gently on his face. Their lips were almost touching.

Oh dear God... He doesn't know what he does to me. Please God he never will. It won't matter soon, anyway.

Actor was examining his expression seriously, though he had to go almost cross-eyed to do it. "You're thinking of that French girl, and the German kid."

For the first time in nearly seventy-two hours, no. Though it was all part of the same, awful mess. Still, if that would turn Actor from the truth...

"Children," he said.

Actor snorted. "And how much older are you?"

He gave a little shake of his head, tried a smile. "A million years..."

"At going on twenty-six," Actor said tartly, surprising Garrison for a moment, before he remembered just how good the other man was at getting hold of information. "Damn this war."

"I think it's already damned."

Actor's dark gaze was altogether too searching. "And us?"

Garrison forced another smile. "Not yet. Tell the others to get ready to move out."

 

With Actor safely out of the way, Garrison hurried into the kitchen. When the house had been abandoned, the farmer and his family had been about to sit down to a meal, and the table was still neatly laid with cutlery and condiments on a checked oilcloth. Garrison used his knife to hack a piece off the edge, wrapped the papers in it, then stood on a chair and wedged the bundle behind a twisted beam. There, in the cobwebby darkness, it would remain undiscovered by anything larger than an over-adventurous mouse.

 

Garrison led the way towards the Russian lines with all due caution. They had already had to fight their way past two German patrols. At the rear, Actor was damning himself for a coward. If he had had the courage to move that inch or so and kiss Garrison, as he had been so tempted, he was certain there would have been no objection.

He would warm his spirits on the intimacy of that moment for days, perhaps years to come.

If I'd dared...

But the time hadn't been right. What Garrison had needed was comfort, not a further dilemma.

And, now he thought about it, he was not sure that he had not been the one who was being conned, overwhelmed by Garrison's nearness, his trust.

What had he found in that safe?

After a while, he found a chance to speak to Goniff without being overheard.

"Not the Warden," Goniff said. "He'll 'ave my guts for garters."

"If you're half as good as you claim he'll never know they're gone. I want a look at those papers, Goniff."

Goniff sighed. "Which pocket?"

"Right hand pants, I think. Though he may have switched them to inside his jacket."

"All right, all right, but you owe me a big one."

An hour later, Goniff reported back. "He ain't carryin' no papers."

"Maybe they're in another pocket."

"Lissen mate, if I try any more pockets, he's gonna suspect me of feeling 'im up."

" _Rukee vyerrch!_ " The language was definitely not German.

"Put your hands up," Garrison hissed at them. "Actor!"

Actor, who spoke a little Russian, called out that they were Americans, friends and allies, and that they were extremely glad to make the acquaintance of any Russians, particularly if they had some hot tea, or possibly vodka.

He was positive that that was what finally convinced them for, in response, half a dozen lugubrious men appeared out of the trees. A minute later, and they were being embraced, though the Russians also searched them and took their weapons. The envelope in Actor's pocket was passed over with hardly a glance.

After ten minutes, the bottle of vodka appeared, much to Goniff's joy. Garrison raised eyes to the heavens, then grinned and took a huge swig himself.

And that was what satisfied Actor that they were safe.

 

The Russian Major was polite but firm. Yes, the Allies had confirmed their identities, that Captain Garrison's unit had been behind German lines and, yes, they would be sent home as soon as possible. Just as soon as possible. Meanwhile, if they would accept his hospitality...

The unspoken message was that Captain Garrison must have been behind the lines for a reason, and the Major did not see why he should not know what it was.

Actor watched with amusement, and a certain amount of pride, as Garrison allowed himself to be persuaded into telling him everything that was not important, and nothing that was, though he seemed to have noticed a fair amount about the disposition of the German defences. They'd been sabotaging them, he explained earnestly, in a spirit of Allied co-operation.

The Major nodded a lot, drank vodka, and became gloomier and gloomier. Actor had a sudden vision of spending the rest of his life trapped here, listening to him. Though if Garrison were here too, it wouldn't be all bad...

He woke up from his daydream in time to hear the Major ask Garrison if he wished to come along "to witness the Glorious Triumph of the People's Army Against the Fascist Swine."

Actor frantically signalled with his eyebrows that, even in the interests of diplomacy, he didn't think this was a good idea.

Garrison sighed, poured another round, and explained that the Generals would not let him.

There was agreement on the stupidity of Generals.

Chess.

However good at this Garrison had become, Actor didn't like to watch him playing with lives, particularly their lives. Not when he was in this strange mood. He and the gloomy Major seemed to have all too much in common.

Finally, though, after nearly six days of wrangling, the Russians found them a commandeered German staff car with Red Army insignia daubed on its side, provided a motorcycle escort, and sent them on their way.

All the troops came out to see the mad Americans leave though, as Goniff pointed out, the motorcycle riders were plainly a good deal madder.

It was a long way to the American lines. They lost count of the number of days they'd been travelling. Despite the Russian Lieutenant who had been sent to smooth their path, they had to explain themselves over and over again. It was a very weary group who were finally loaded onto a transport plane and flown back to what Casino – in order to annoy Goniff – referred to as "Good old Blighty."

 

The airfield was almost deserted of people, but planes of various kinds, some of which definitely could not belong to the RAF transport squadron based here, were parked haphazardly on the grass. Usually, the Squadron Leader was there to meet them, if only to see what they'd brought back. He'd never forgotten the time it had been a stolen Messerschmitt transport and a wounded German General.

On this occasion, all that was there to greet them was a lone US Army Corporal, kicking the tires of a jeep with evident impatience. "About time," he greeted them. "Well, come on. Sooner I get you back to your base, sooner I can start celebrating."

Everyone, including the aircraft's crew, stared at him and then at each other. It was Goniff who took it on himself to say, "Look, mate, all I want to celebrate is finding my bed. What's the fuss, anyway?"

The Corporal looked at him with tolerant amusement. "Ain't you guys heard? This war's over. The Nazi surrender came into effect eight hours ago."

It took a long time to sink into combat-weary minds. Then:

"Over!" Casino yelled. "Did you say 'Over'?" Without waiting for an answer, he threw his arms around the nearest person, who happened to be the pilot. "Did ya hear that, buddy? That's my ticket outa here!" He whirled on Garrison. "The duration and six months, right, Warden? That six months started eight hours ago."

"Japan," Chief said, also looking at Garrison.

"You mean they ain't surrendered too?" Goniff asked plaintively. "Hey, Warden, you can't count the Yellow Peril. Even Actor doesn't speak the lingo."

"Japan..." Garrison said faintly. He took a deep breath. "I'll check with General Meacher. I'm not guaranteeing anything, but if it's up to me... Oh, Hell." He grinned for the first time in what seemed like years. "Leave it to me, Chief."

Chief nodded, satisfied.

"After what you've been dealing with recently, Meacher should be a doddle," Goniff said, in a voice that did not sound entirely convinced. "I'm not going to Japan, Warden. I'm allergic to rice, an—"

"Com'on, Warden, you've had your money's worth—"

"It's not the Captain you have to convince," Actor said, fighting down the urge to pick up Casino and Goniff and knock their heads together. "When did he ever let you down, eh?"

"Well... you wanna long list or a short list?"

"Get us home," Garrison said to the Corporal, overriding Casino. "You guys need a ride?"

The pilot hesitated: "Thanks awfully, Captain, but—"

"I don't see anyone here to debrief us, Skipper," his navigator pointed out.

"Yeah, and what can they do to us, anyhow?" the radio operator demanded. "Everyone else has gone to celebrate, Skip. Why not us?"

The pilot threw up his hands in surrender. "Thanks, Captain."

"My pleasure. We'll drop you at the nearest railroad station."

 

Actor had been waiting for hours in Garrison's office in the fortified manor house that had been their home for nearly three years. It was well after nine when the door opened. Garrison did not turn on the light. Instead, he slouched to the window and, with some effort, forced it open. Cold air and the sound of merriment blew in. He stood looking out into the darkness of the overgrown parkland, arms folded, one shoulder on the window frame, a characteristic pose that still sent a chill through Actor's soul. He looked so lonely, isolated even from the euphoria that gripped half a dozen nations.

"Warden..."

"Huh?" Actor could see how tired Garrison was by the slowness with which the gun appeared. "Actor? What are you doing here?"

"Waiting for you." Actor took the weapon out of his hand, checked that it wasn't cocked, and shoved it into a desk drawer, all without looking away from the tired eyes.

"The others?"

"You don't think they would miss the celebrations, do you? Even the Sergeant-Major is out in the crowds. Looking for them, he said."

"But not you."

"Not me. I wanted to talk to you."

Garrison shook his head. "The six months run from today. I've done my best to get it reduced, but..." He rubbed his eyes wearily. "I think they're scared of letting you loose before the world's ready for you."

"I know you did your best," Actor said gently, "but that wasn't... Sit down. Have a drink."

Though he remained leaning against the wall beside the window, Garrison did take the glass that Actor offered him. He sniffed the golden liquid that came nearly to the rim, then tasted it cautiously. "Hell, Actor, where'd you steal this?"

"Warden, really, you wound me. Would I feed an honest man stolen Cognac? Don't answer that," he added hastily, holding up a hand.

"It's some time since I felt like an honest man," Garrison said, draining his glass. "Is there any more of that?"

"More than enough to put us both under the table." Actor refilled his glass with a flourish.

Dutch courage. He swallowed his in a single gulp. "There's something... I have... I need to tell you..."

He felt, rather than saw, Garrison's attention focus on him, along with the familiar thrill of a plan beginning to work.

Much better to let him drag it out of me. He's more likely to believe me if he thinks I'm scared... Especially as I'm terrified.

Garrison said: "There's something I wanted to say to you too."

Dear God, can it be..?

Thrown totally off balance, Actor could think of nothing to do but keep going, though his heart was pounding, and his groin felt as if it was going to burst. He lowered his eyes. "It's... not really important."

To anyone but me. To me it's the most important thing I can imagine. You must know that. You've always been able to read me before. Ask me, you fool.

Garrison's mind was no longer on his wavelength. He had his own agenda. He said, formally, "Actor, the support you've given me... I want you to know I appreciate it." It was the voice of a man saying goodbye.

His careful game plan forgotten, suddenly unsure that Garrison had ever felt as he did, even in the aftermath of battle, Actor found himself floundering. Helplessly, he reached out, redirecting his wayward hand to rest it on the other man's shoulder before it cupped the beloved face. "If ever a man deserved support, it's you." Almost of its own accord, his wrist twisted, long fingers stroking along the line of Garrison's chin. "We owe you so damn much."

"You owe me nothing," Garrison said harshly.

But he hadn't pulled away from the more intimate touch. What was it the English said? In for a penny...?

In the same moment, Actor shifted his grip to the back of Garrison's neck, sliding his fingers into soft, wheat-coloured hair as he bent to kiss his mouth.

He had seen Garrison kill with a quick twist of his hands, knew his strength, but there was no resistance other than those deadly hands pushing ineffectually against his chest.

Actor persisted, not letting himself be pushed, teasing with lips and tongue until Garrison's mouth softened, yielded to him. If there was a Heaven, it was in the taste of brandy on his tongue.

As he freed them both for a moment, he heard Garrison draw breath, heard the shaky, "Oh dear God..." and knew he'd won.

He'd never stolen such a prize.

So he kissed him again, triumphantly, hungrily, and this time he was answered.

It was with a small part of his mind that he remembered to tease open the buckle of Garrison's belt and unzip his pants. There was no resistance. Indeed, from the intensity of the passion with which he was being kissed, he doubted that the Captain noticed the covert operation in his nether regions.

He slid to his knees, his hands dragging Garrison's pants down so that his mouth slipped straight from his lips to his erect cock, giving him no time to think, no time to object. His spread fingers found those wonderful tight buttocks, dragged them forward, pulling the whole hot length of him deep inside where it could be sucked and licked without mercy.

From that moment, there could be no protest. Every small noise of pleasure, every shiver of response fired Actor's growing joy. He doubted that he would ever tell the man he was loving so effectively where he had learned these skills, but he knew that his mouth could carry him to ecstasy and beyond.

Garrison's fingers dug harder and harder into his shoulders, urging him on. "God, oh God... Roberto..."

For an instant, Actor froze, stunned that, in this of all moments, Garrison had used his real name. It had been so long since he'd heard it...

In a blaze of tenderness and desire, he lifted him over the edge, accepting the blind thrusting, the rush of warmth, the saltiness in his throat as he swallowed.

Garrison was slipping away from him, sliding down the wall so that Actor had to move swiftly avoid hurting him. He kissed his mouth again, pulled away his shirt and shoes, finally allowed all the touches he wanted. His own groin was pulsing fire but he knew he must not give in to its demands yet, not if he was going to keep the other man's trust.

He shed his clothes hastily, aware towards the end of the process that Garrison's eyes were now open and he was being watched.

"Here, let me." He knelt to finish the job of removing Garrison's pants from around his ankles.

"Actor, what the Hell are we doing?"

He'd thought that was obvious. He tried a smile. "Celebrating the end of the war, our survival." Gently, he let a thumb circle a nipple, was pleased to feel it harden in response.

Keep him off balance.

"I have wanted to do this for a long, long time. I could not let you walk from my life without at least trying... to go back to prison without knowing you this way."

"And what now?"

Actor had always been a gambler. Besides, he'd a feeling the last few minutes had fixed the odds in his favour. "That's up to you."

 

Up to me, Garrison thought, looking up into enigmatic brown eyes.

Yes, like you gave me a choice just now.

"You've done this before," he said. "I would never have taken you for a queer. What happened to those girls you're always chasing?"

Actor shrugged. "I like women, I like men," he said offhandedly. Then his expression changed, became intense, smouldering, very Latin. "You... you I love."

For an instant, Garrison's heart swelled so much he had to swallow it, but then memories and reason killed the instinctive response.

Yeah, sure. He'd heard Actor use that tone to swear undying loyalty to the Third Reich, or that he hadn't even seen that tempting piece of jewellery, that miniature portrait, that fat wallet that had just disappeared.

He knew this man, too well to believe a word he said.

But if it wasn't for him, where would I be?

Dead, almost certainly. Mad, probably.

His eyes moved to the arc of flesh swaying above Actor's thighs. His stomach lurched, and he didn't know if it was from fear or desire. He said: "Tell me what to do."

Actor stretched out a hand. "Come to bed," he said. "We'll be more comfortable."

 

The bed was narrow. It was oddly unnerving to see Actor sprawled there on his back on the familiar lumpy mattress, pretending a languid, upper-class poise, one arm thrown up behind his head. Even Garrison, who knew all about his strength and agility, was shaken by the muscular power of the body that lay open for his exploration.

"Take your time," Actor had said.

Garrison lay on his side, resting a hand on the wide chest. The languidness was definitely a pose. He could feel the other man's heart pounding under his hand, and his breathing wasn't at all steady.

He was still erect. Had been, Garrison realised, since that first kiss.

Waiting in agony for me to take my time. So what does he really want me to do?

It didn't take much of an imagination to answer that, and the thought sent a shiver through his body.

Can I?

"Actor..." He turned over and spread his legs.

"You're... sure?" It didn't sound like Actor. All the confidence had gone.

This is one of the greatest conmen of all time, Garrison reminded himself. But I owe him this.

"Umm," he grunted, because he didn't trust his voice.

"Oh my love."

Conman. Hold that thought.

He felt lips on the bumps of his spine. Fingers eased into the cleft between his buttocks. Involuntarily, he tensed.

"Ah. Not yet," Actor whispered. He kissed the vulnerable nape of Garrison's neck in apology. "Turn over, _cheri_. I want to see your face."

More relieved than he could have admitted, Garrison obeyed.

The heavy cock slid between his thighs, rubbing against sensitive skin. Instinctively, his own muscles tightened, wanting to hold it forever. Actor gasped, and began to thrust, hot and hard against skin and hair.

Garrison found himself panting in the same rhythm. Sympathetic heat was gathering in his groin. Deliberately, he ignored it and watched Actor's face instead, marvelling in its new readability, control torn away in passion. Then Actor's thrusting cock stroked against his tightening balls. His back arched, and the thrust went even deeper, into the cleft behind, seeking... Even as Garrison arched higher, started to open his legs, Actor moaned and came, and he had no choice but to follow.

Afterwards, they shared a cigarette, and comfort.

 

It wasn't a time for promises, Actor knew. Too early to ask for any kind of commitment, too early even to give it, and it would be dangerous to sue for favours, for information that Garrison might feel had been seduced out of him. All the same, he couldn't stop himself asking: "Can you stop them sending us back to America?"

"I doubt it. I've used up a lot of credit today." There was an odd note in Garrison's voice, but that might be because his face was pressed into the curve of Actor's neck.

Actor ruffled his hair, then lifted his chin to kiss him. "Six months wouldn't be so long," he said against his mouth, "if I had this to look forward to."

"I'll be there when they release you," Garrison promised.

Before then, Actor thought, I'll have you so addicted to me that you won't be able to walk away. Won't be able to walk. All I need is a week.

But when he woke the next morning, Garrison had gone. There wasn't even a message. Desperate with fear for him, he conned his way right into Allied Intelligence HQ, only to come up against a blank wall.

Captain Garrison was on assignment.

No-one Actor dare speak to knew where he was or when he'd be back. As for his unit, they were destined for the States, for the prisons from which they'd been shipped to Europe more than two and a half years before.

With parole promised, they did not resist.

 

" _Pardon?_ " Actor stared at the Alcatraz Warden in amazement.

"That's right. God and the US Government only know why, but you're not to be paroled. You're pardoned, free and clear."

Craig, bless you. I'm not sure how you engineered it, but if I didn't love you already, I would now.

"I have friends in high places," Actor said lightly. "When can I leave?"

The Warden shrugged. "Whenever you want. You're a free man."

"The other members of my unit?"

"You mean the other hoods the Army took on? As far as I know, they're having similar conversations with equally bewildered prison officials right now."

That was fine. He knew where to find them.

"Then I'll collect my possessions and be off," Actor said, rising to his feet. Unless... "Unless there are any messages for me."

"Isn't the one I've just given you enough for you? Not that I don't expect to see you again soon."

"Oh, I think not. You don't move in rich enough circles."

 

Outside, it was raining; beautiful, soft, warm summer rain that filled him with joy at his freedom. He was the only passenger for the boat waiting to take him across the Bay, and he was alight with anticipation every moment of the trip to the landing jetty.

Which was deserted.

He waited for a while, watching the cars and boats both splash past, then retreated to a bar across the street. It was a long vigil, and a fruitless one. He began to drink heavily, but somehow stayed sober.

"Ain't you got nowhere to go?" the young waitress asked, when she brought him his second bottle.

Well, yes, he had. The others would be expecting him, and maybe expecting him to bring Garrison with him.

"You waiting for someone?"

It was a terrible effort to turn on the charm. "I thought so, but—" He shrugged.

She put her hand on his arm. "We see this all the time," she said. "You've waited longer than most. It's been six hours now. She ain't coming."

"I suppose not."

"You'll find someone else. Handsome guy like you..." There was invitation in her voice.

Actor looked at her, through her.

It took me nearly forty years to find him.

"Keep the change," he said, and ducked out into the rain.

 

Down in the cellar bar, the beer and whiskey flowed freely. Casino's uncle had put up the shutters and left his nephew and his guests to their celebration.

It was Casino who finally asked the question Actor had been steeling himself against. "Anyone heard from the Warden?"

When no-one else answered, Actor gave the reply he had been rehearsing through the long rail journey. "No, but maybe he thought getting us pardons and an early release was message enough."

"Best bleeding message I ever 'ad," Goniff agreed.

"He ain't contacted you?" Chief asked, looking at Actor.

"Yeah, you were the last to see him, Actor. You say something to offend him?"

Maybe. But it hadn't felt like it, that May night just outside London. Hadn't felt like it at all.

Not trusting his voice, Actor shook his head.

Casino filled their glasses again. "Well, wherever he is, here's to the best damn Warden a bunch of cons ever had."

Chief rose to his feet, intense gaze demanding that they copy him. "The Warden."

"The Warden," the other three repeated solemnly, downing their whiskey.

It was Actor who was the first to smash his glass to the floor, in lieu of the hearth the bar didn't possess.

Craig never broke a promise to me before, he thought, as Casino rattled more glasses out from behind the bar. But we were released early. He – maybe he's on a mission somewhere and can't break free. Yes, the Army really has its hooks in him. He'll find us when he can. He knows he can contact us through Casino's brothers and sisters, or Goniff's mother.

At least he'll let us know that he's all right.

"So, what happens now?" Goniff asked.

"I'm going back to England," Actor announced. "There is something I have to collect."

"Oh, such as?"

"Well..." Actor drew out the suspense for a moment, but he had meant to tell them anyway. "That last mission, you remember? The safe in Berlin. There was something in it."

"Yeah, I was in that room, babe, an' you didn't bring anything out. What's more, those blasted Ruskies went over us with a fine-toothed comb."

"An envelope," Actor said. "Addressed to somewhere in Switzerland. I scribbled on the back of it to make it look as if I had been using it to draft a letter to my grandmother."

"You don't have a grandmother."

"Do you want to hear about this or not? The envelope is worthless, but the stamps on it will fetch at least half a million."

The silence was that of the respect due to that amount of money.

"You're kiddin..."

"If you think so, I'll just have your share. They'll need careful marketing, of course, but I have the right contacts."

They were beginning to believe him. Casino thumped him on the shoulder. "Actor, you're somethin' else. An' you sneaked 'em past the Warden."

"What's he gonna do when he finds out?"

Actor shrugged. "Well, he can hardly make us put them back."

 

Casino's question appeared more and more academic as weeks turned into a month, then two. Casino was also the first to express his belief that maybe there was a sinister reason for Garrison's silence.

"He didn't have us to look out for him anymore," he pointed out.

"You think he bought it?" Goniff asked. "If so, why ain't we been invited to the funeral?"

"Cos we're just a buncha ex-cons," was Casino's opinion. "Why should we count for anything?"

"Well, I call that downright uncivilised of them. Hey, Actor, you know all about the Warden. Can we get in touch with his folks?"

"He doesn't have any – not any more," Actor said.

"Then maybe the Army—"

"Perhaps the Captain does not want to be reminded that he spent the war nursemaiding a bunch of hoods."

Chief said: "That ain't the reason, Actor. He wouldn't just abandon us without a word. Least he'd do is come to say goodbye."

It was a long speech for Chief, and all of them acknowledged the truth of it, Actor most of all.

"He will," he said, but he no longer believed it.

 

London reminded him too much of what he had lost. America would be worse. The easiest thing to do was run and, now the money from the stamps was in the arms of the safest of Swiss banks, he could run wherever he liked.

Italy had been home when he was a small child, and somehow he found himself there again, trying to heal his heart in the warmth of her sun.

It was a surprise, but a comfort, when the others followed him.

At the beginning, he'd made a point of trying to become Garrison's second-in-command. This had cut very little ice indeed with his unit commander, until he'd shown enough trust to be trusted in return.

It was astonishing to learn that he had succeeded beyond his wildest hopes and to find a new responsibility within himself. He had to make sure they never went back to jail; anything else would betray what Garrison had come to mean to him.

 

The _Ristorante di Mare_ on the waterfront had become one of their favourites. They were in the middle of their third bottle of wine, with half the local whores draped over them, when the problem arrived in the shape of six very large men in very sharp suits.

"You're wanted," the tallest said. He hauled a whore off Goniff. "Beat it."

"Hey, we ain't done nothing!" Goniff hollered, as the girls departed.

"I doubt that, but that isn't my concern. General Meacher wants to talk to you."

"Ask us nicely," Chief suggested, his fingers too near his wrists for Actor's comfort. He knew how fast the knives could come out of their sheaths.

"For a three star General, this is nice," he said hurriedly. "Okay, if the General wants to talk, we'll listen."

 

They had never met Meacher, though they had worked for him through the last six months of the war. Garrison had described him as a smooth operator, who cultivated an air of genial intelligence. Now he sat behind an impressive desk, dapper in his undress uniform, reddish-blond hair and moustache neatly brushed, with two full Colonels flanking him on either side, and lectured them.

Actor let him. There was a hope growing inside him that might be totally vain, but it was too wonderful a hope to uproot.

"When the Russians took over Donnerswald, they captured a man called Krekeler, an expert on rocket fuels. Now we – the United States, that is – already have most of the scientists who were working on the V2 project in protective custody and we'd prefer the Russians not to have access to any of the others. So we decided to get Krekeler out before they learned too much.

"Unfortunately, the Russians re-fortified the installations at Donnerswald and Krekeler and the others in there have not been allowed beyond the fences for the past four months.

"We sent a team in to get him; three of our agents and Krekeler's sister, who had agreed to ensure he co-operated with us. They carried forged papers which identified them as high-ranking Communist Party officials authorised to have Krekeler transferred to their custody and shipped to Moscow. Krekeler's sister was supposedly their hostage, held to ensure her brother's good behaviour.

"The problem is that none of them made their return rendezvous. What information we have suggests Krekeler is still in Donnerswald. We think that if there's a team capable of bringing him out, it's you."

"I'm not risking my neck for some damn Kraut!" Casino exploded.

"Me neither," Goniff agreed.

"You'll be well rewarded."

"You can take your mission and stuff it. You don't have a hold over us any more – or are you going to appeal to our patriotism?"

"No, Casino," Actor said. "He has a better lever, haven't you, General? I don't have to guess who led the first team in there, but I do want to know if he's still alive."

One of the Colonels – Piper – nodded. "Richards said you were sharp. And I can't answer your question. I wish I could, believe me. I value Captain Garrison almost as much as you do."

There was a startled silence, then everyone looked at Actor, who said: "I will go, of course, for the appropriate fee, but I cannot speak for the others."

"I'm in," Chief said.

"Yeah, well, just so you understand we're making our own choices," Casino grumbled, after a quick look at Goniff to confirm his agreement.

"An' the Warden's a damned high priority for us," Chief added.

"We will need information," Actor said; "papers, contacts..."

"Everything you want."

"Grenades and a few fucking big guns would be nice."

Meacher began to look faintly alarmed. "The whole idea is not to create a diplomatic incident."

"We ain't diplomats."

"It's all right, General," said Actor. "I'll be the one doing the talking. Which is more than Captain Garrison could have been. He's picked up some Russian recently, but nowhere near enough to pass as a native. So who fronted the con?"

It was Piper who answered: "The other two agents were both fluent Russian speakers. Your 'front man' is Peter Studenikin. A good man. Worked for us for years."

Actor had never heard of him. Still, if Garrison had been satisfied that he could handle it... "Do the Russians know the American Government was behind the attempt to get Krekeler out?"

"There's been no reaction to suggest it so far."

That might mean the entire team was dead, or that someone had conned the Russians into thinking otherwise. Garrison was perfectly capable of that. There was still hope, then.

"Good. Let's hope that they're not expecting anyone to try again, because our first priority is to get inside that installation and for that we also need identities that will be trusted by the Russians. Real identities that can be checked. How do you think I would fare as an Italian scientist who fought for the Communist resistance?"

"Is there such a person?"

"Yes," said Actor, "and I also know some men who can make him disappear while I become him. Casino, I want you to get in touch with Luigi Roselli in Messina. You remember him?"

"Yeah. He's _Mafioso_ , Actor. We don't wanna mess with him."

"That is why you are the one who is going to get in touch. He owes us all a favour, but the request will be better coming from you; he still thinks you're an American cousin. Also, he respects Garrison."

"Yeah, yeah, okay. Let's just hope he never realises I don't have any 'Italian' connections. So who's this he's gotta put the snatch on?"

"His name is Carlo Sorci. Right, General, what you have to go is get word out to the Russians that Italy is too hot to hold Sorci. I'll draft the signals you need to send. It's going to take some time to get through to the Russians, but that can't be helped. Let's just hope the Warden can hold on that long."

 

Whatever Donnerswald had been under the Nazis, under the Russians it had come to resemble a prison camp. They passed two security checks before the gates opened for them. As they got out, Casino signalled that they were the targets of guns aimed from every side of the compound. No doubt Goniff and Chief, watching with binoculars from beyond the perimeter, had also noted that the guards were jumpy.

Only to be expected, of course, but it wasn't going to make getting Krekeler and the US agents out easier – if they were still here. If Garrison wasn't, they should be able to find a lead to his whereabouts, even if they had to torture it out of someone.

And if he was dead?

Once again Actor shoved that possibility to the back of his mind. He wasn't ready to face a world without Garrison.

He didn't like the way the original operation had been set up. It relied too heavily on the documentation being absolutely right, and on the untested acting abilities of Studenikin and Mosner, whose only qualifications seemed to be their ability to speak fluent Russian, nor did it leave room for the lightning changes of plan in response to a fluid situation that were Garrison's speciality.

Not his style at all. Yet he volunteered for this mission. It doesn't make sense.

Let's hope I get the chance to ask him why.

 

"It is vital to our Cause that I speak with _Doktor Krekeler_ ," Actor told the dour Colonel Laskovsky for perhaps the tenth time as they made their way towards the latter's office. He spoke in English, with a strong Italian accent. Casino, as his minder, followed at their heels, carrying the attaché case that had been searched both here and at the gates. "His research holds the key to my own, which we Workers need in Italia, if we are going to defeat the Fascists and Royalists and form the Government when the Americans leave."

"Krekeler is a Fascist."

Actor shrugged. "I have worked with Fascists. One uses them, then..." He made a vague gesture suggesting disposal. "Comrade Stalin has agreed— "

"Comrade Stalin is in Moscow." Laskovsky pushed open the door into what turned out to be a vast factory space, though only a few of the machines were turning, and there were more guards than workers attending to them—

Actor stopped, heart in his mouth.

Dear God.

Light gleamed on dark-blond hair, shaggier than he remembered. He'd rarely seen him out of uniform recently, whether his own, _SS_ , or any of the branches of the _Wehrmacht_ , so that the shabby blue coveralls were vaguely unfamiliar, but even with his back turned he was unmistakable.

Desire dizzied Actor, as it had done in so many memories.

"You. Where is _Doktor_ Krekeler?" the Colonel was demanding, in pidgin German.

Garrison turned. Though the shock of seeing Actor and Casino must have been considerable, he didn't even blink. "He has not been here, _Herr Oberst_." His voice was dull, and there was recent bruising around his face.

Actor wanted to kill someone, anyone, almost as much as he wanted to screw the pathetic figure in front of him right through the floor.

"Get back to your work!" Laskovsky snarled, cuffing Garrison so hard he almost fell. He did not try to retaliate. Actor heard Casino's indrawn breath and saw Garrison's eyes flicker to him, then the hand out of sight of the Colonel move almost imperceptibly in a familiar signal.

Wait.

Actor could almost hear the relaxing of Casino's muscles. The Colonel might not know it, but he had been exceedingly close to death at that moment.

Yes, he can wait.

Plainly extremely pleased with himself, Laskovsky led Actor onwards through the rows of machines. "This is what we should do with all Germans. Let them learn to be workers, eh? That one was a _Gestapo_ officer."

Actor's breath hissed through his teeth. "Then why is he still alive?"

"The _Gestapo_ know much we also need to know. Who the troublemakers are – heh?"

Garrison must have talked awfully fast. That hadn't been part of the original plan.

"Krekeler's sister was to marry him. She persuaded him to try to rescue her brother. Now we use her to keep both under control. I like to have safety margins, heh?"

Some very fast talking indeed.

Suddenly, he was looking forward to meeting _Herr Doktor_ Krekeler.

 

Krekeler spoke surprisingly good Italian and they talked nonsense about rocket fuel until Colonel Laskovsky became bored and left them too it. Then, under the cover of machine noise, Krekeler said, "What you are not is Sorci. We met at a conference before the war. So who are you?"

"American agents."

Krekeler nodded. "I suspected so. Captain Garrison said you would not give up."

"Captain Garrison," said Actor, with feeling, "does not know what 'give up' means. He is alive, I know, and so is your sister. What about Studenikin and Mosner?"

Krekeler pulled a face. "Dead. And lucky not to have sent us all the same way."

"You seem to have some freedoms."

"Fewer than you think. I am allowed out of my quarters and the laboratory only with an escort, and with Ewa held hostage..."

"Your sister comes out with us. I will tell you what to do, and you must pass the word to her and Garrison."

"There is no way I can be seen talking to Captain Garrison, but Ewa is allowed to visit him. They will be supervised, but Laskovsky does not bother to assign German-speaking guards any longer, since they have overheard nothing of importance."

"Good. You will all have your parts to play – and I hope you are a good actor, _Doktor_ Krekeler. Firstly, I need to know where the generator is situated and what fuel it uses."

"Behind the laboratories and it is gas fired."

"Then luck is running with us. Very well, _Herr Doktor_ this is what I want each of you to do."

 

Later that evening, Actor, Casino, Ewa and Krekeler had gathered in the latter's quarters to eat a frugal meal.

"Captain Garrison said," Ewa reported, "that you 'are totally out of line, and out of your mind,' but that it 'was also your play.'"

Casino chuckled. "For a change." He was eyeing Ewa lasciviously. No-one had told Actor that Krekeler's sister was a statuesque blonde with legs that went on forever. Bright, too.

Garrison had volunteered for this mission. When the Germans caught them, his first thought was to pretend to be her fiancé. Or was it all a pretence?

Ewa was saying, "You have worked with Captain Garrison before?"

Casino beamed. "You don't know the half of it, sister."

"He is very good," she said earnestly. "I owe my life to his quick thinking. He says he will make his own way to join you – he should be in the machine shop at that hour. He also says to tell you that the power to the perimeter fence is provided by an outside generator, but the poles on the right hand watchtower at the gate are loose and unstable. A small charge will bring them down. If you make sure the falling tower crashes into the fence, it will short out the power."

Casino groaned. "Our play, is it?"

"And he also said to tell you specially, Actor – your name is really Actor? – not to overact."

"Actor is what they call me. And I never overact." He looked at Casino. "If the Warden is right and the power for the outer perimeter comes from a generator elsewhere, we'd better do as he says and cover that angle."

"No problem."

"I do not understand where you will get the explosives. I have not been allowed access to even the chemicals I need for my work. Besides, you must have been searched when you came in.

Casino picked up the attaché case and patted it. "This is lined with a mixture of Cyclonite, oil and beeswax," he said. "The British call it Plastic Explosive, which just about describes it."

"Well, be careful with it."

"I tell you Actor, it's as safe as your mother's arms."

"I hope not. Now, have you two stored enough water to last until morning?"

Krekeler and Ewa nodded. "There is just one problem," the former added. "I have never seen Colonel Laskovsky drink water."

"That's all right. He confiscated the wine I brought supposedly as a gift for you, and I think he will sleep all the way through the little entertainment we have planned for tomorrow morning."

 

Garrison lay on the wooden boards of his cell, ignoring the cold and the discomfort as he had ignored them for nearly three months, keeping them at bay with the memory of a night of forbidden pleasure and a conman who, he'd told himself, didn't really care about him, or anyone.

So why hadn't he been surprised to see him and Casino today?

For all his relief at the presence of his old unit – and that had been profound – it had made everything both easier and harder. Easier, because they had the _materiel_ and the outside assistance, the lack of which had bedevilled his attempts to get out of here with both Krekeler and his sister in tow.

Actor's plan was sound. Possibly too sound. He'd have an escape route mapped out, which was what would make it harder to follow through on his own personal objectives.

His team had a habit of going protective if he'd been hurt and Actor, in particular, was likely to want to stick to him like glue. Yet, ideally, he needed to complete the task he had set himself alone.

Forget that. Actor would have dug in his heels even before the change in their relationship. Now...

So many reasons he mustn't know.

He'd cross those bridges when he came to them. The first job was to get out of this place. Then he'd have to play it by ear.

 

At twenty minutes to nine, Casino dealt with the guard at Ewa's door by offering him a cigarette in voluble Italian, then slugging him as he concentrated on lighting it. The lock was scarcely complicated enough to make him break step.

Ewa, wearing slacks and low-heeled shoes, was standing just beside the door, a broken chair leg in her hand. Casino gave her the gun instead, and dragged the unconscious soldier into the room. "Keep a watch on the door," he told her.

"And you?"

"I'm gonna borrow this guy's uniform."

Ewa nodded, and lined the weapon on the doorway. "None of your friends are likely to come in?" she asked anxiously, though the weapon was rock-steady.

"Not without announcing themselves."

"Ah, good. So I can just shoot?"

"Anyone you want, sweetheart."

"And now?"

Casino joined her at the door. "We wait for the fun and games. They should start in maybe ninety seconds."

 

Looking out through the heavily-meshed laboratory window, Actor saw the supply truck drive in through the gates, carrying its weekly supplies of food and vodka. Even from this distance, he caught a glimpse of Goniff's shock of yellow hair in the cab and felt his heart begin to race. It had started.

Though, of course, it had really started late the previous night when he and Casino had set the charges and dumped the contents of their toothpaste tubes in the water supply.

It had fizzed in a most sinister manner.

Not deadly, but it's difficult to fire a gun satisfactorily with your stomach cramping – and the food in here was enough to turn one's stomach at the best of times.

Laskovsky hadn't even been that aware when Actor had breezed into his quarters at six am. He'd been lying on his bed, bottle still dangling from one hand, snoring like a pig.

The temptation to retaliate for the Colonel's ill-treatment of Garrison had been almost overwhelming. Somehow, Actor had resisted it. In all probability he could safely leave that to the man's superiors – if the forthcoming fire didn't get out of hand.

Instead, he'd tied the Colonel to the bed and stolen his best uniform jacket and cap. They were too small, but were at least wearable. He'd had to raid another room for boots big enough. The shirt and pants were his own. It was unlikely that anyone was going to look that closely – particularly considering the present state of supplies to the Red Army. Indeed, if anything, he might look too smart.

The truck pulled to a halt outside the canteen.

They were ready to roll.

 

When it came, the explosion from the generator room was thunderous. Every light in the place went out.

With fierce relief in being able to act, Garrison slammed an elbow into one guard's stomach, snatched the gun from his hand and dived to the floor, rolling into the cover of a lathe that was gradually crunching to a halt.

Apart from the cursing guard, no-one took any notice of him. Every machine had stopped, and the place lay silent in twilight filtering in through the grimy windows.

A twilight that was turning red.

 

Inside the laboratory, guards and technicians were running about in confusion as Krekeler, with evident glee, shouted contrary instructions at them in a mixture of German and Russian even worse than Actor's.

" _Feuer! Du idiot_ , save the equipment – save the papers – get the chemicals – where is the water?! _Schnell! Schnell!_ "

Actor joined in with a number of choice phrases specially concocted for the occasion during the flight over Europe that had brought them here.

 

Garrison scuttled from machine to machine, trying to keep out of sight. He could hear men calling to the guard he had downed, but not whether he replied.

A rattle of rifle fire suggested his absence had been noticed.

Damn. He'd thought they'd've taken longer to get the panicking workers under control. He wasn't the only one who had thought to head for the doors, but he was the only one heading towards the fire.

He was also the only one with a gun.

 

The smoke seemed to be getting worse. Moreover, it was coming from behind them.

Deducing smoke grenades, Actor yelled, _"Capo!"_

"You rang?" Chief asked, appearing at his side.

Actor took one of the bandoleers of grenades, saying, "The Warden should be in the machine shed. He said he could cope, but..."

Chief disappeared.

 

Garrison knew he'd been spotted when a shot wanged off a drilling machine and missed him by inches. He rolled frantically for cover, only there wasn't any, because the shot had come from above.

Lying on his back, he scanned along the upper catwalk, sighted, and fired.

He heard the clatter as the rifle fell, and the heavier thud of the body following it. Then all noise was drowned in the thunder of gunfire, but at least it was at ground level. That he could avoid, with luck.

Crouching low, he began his run for the door.

 

Actor pitched a couple more smoke grenades into the mix, then grabbed Krekeler by the arm and hustled him outside into even more smoke. Goniff had been busy.

Casino and Ewa joined them at a run. Actor bundled them into the back of the truck, Casino taking the wheel. The engine, already warm, was muttering softly to itself.

Where the Hell were Garrison and Chief?

 

Garrison was panting before he reached the door. He was weaker than he'd thought, and the gun was empty.

As he turned the corner, he found himself looking straight down the barrel of a machine gun, and knew he'd blown it.

"Warden!" Impossibly, it was Chief, who asked: "You okay?" with a look that took in every bruise and cut, and probably his exhaustion as well. If he showed any sign of weakness now, he'd lose it – and maybe set Chief on a killing spree.

"I'm fine. Krekeler and the girl?"

"On their way to the truck."

"Then let's join them."

 

"Where's Captain Garrison?" Ewa asked.

"We've less than a minute, Actor," Casino snapped.

Actor was silently cursing the fact that, as the only person with a smattering of Russian, he had been unable to get back to Garrison himself. Anything could have happened ... and they had no time at all.

"Casino, you and Goniff'll have to take these people back to the American zone – I'll get you through the gate – then try and bring the Warden and Chief out after—"

A burst of gunfire heralded the belated arrival of his two lost sheep. He herded them into the truck, sincerely thanking God for this mercy and promising to attend Mass at least once – in the next few years.

He slammed the rear doors and waved Casino on, then followed at a run in their wake.

The truck had just pulled up at the gates when there was a small thud, almost inaudible in the chaos of the fire, then another, followed by shouts of fear as the wooden watchtower beside the gates suddenly listed to the right. As it toppled into the fence, the guards inside leaped for their lives and electricity sizzled and sparked in the air, charring the posts.

Actor, in the Soviet Colonel's best uniform, came charging along behind the truck yelling, "Open the gates! Let them through!" in Russian.

It was all too much for the confused guards, who did not stop to think that they had never seen this particular officer before. With the air about them full of smoke and the sickly smell of ozone, they swung the gates wide, taking the offered opportunity to flee themselves.

Actor leaped onto the running board beside the cab and hung on until Casino stopped for long enough to allow him to get inside.

 

"Nice work," Garrison told Actor, as he clambered into the back. "Let's hope they don't catch on too quickly." He raised his voice. "Casino, step on it."

"You got complaints, Warden, you come up here and drive."

"Uhuh. You drive, baby, I just give the orders."

Casino cackled, and steered deliberately into a particularly nasty pothole, getting himself cursed in several languages in the process.

Garrison just hung on and tried to stay conscious. The systematic beatings of the last three months had taken their toll of his strength. Now the adrenaline was wearing off, every bone in his body ached.

He daren't let that show, daren't let any of them see how much he simply wanted to collapse.

Maybe having some of them along with him wasn't such a bad idea after all. Goniff and Casino were the least likely to be suspicious, but he couldn't split the party that way. Chief was still hovering with a look-at-him-wrong-and-you-die expression, and Actor...

Actor was expert at hiding his feelings, but there was a white line about his lips and Garrison had yet to see him smile. Tell him to leave and there'd be an explosion.

Besides, if he was going to collapse, he wanted Actor around to catch him.

I've diverted him before. I can do it again.

And if he took all three of the others with him, Chief would be more willing to be detached.

"Okay, Actor, where are we going?" he demanded.

"Road for another ten miles – meld in with the refugees – then out on one of the empty Allied food trucks."

"The Russians'll need to be distracted."

"Don't you think they've been distracted enough?"

Garrison stared Actor down. "I'm not taking chances—" He ignored the snort from Casino. "This is what we're going to do."

 

There was no doubt that Garrison was once again in charge. No one made more than a perfunctory protest at his decision to send Chief, Krekeler and Ewa along their planned escape route while Actor, Casino, and Goniff accompanied him and diverted the Russians before making their own way into the American zone.

Actor was, indeed, beginning to feel better about the whole deal, until – just as the truck was about to continue on its way minus four of its passengers – Ewa threw her arms round Garrison's neck, kissed him and said, "Thank you, Craig."

"And thank you. You could make a real career of this," he replied gallantly.

"I'll meet you back in the United States." She made it a statement.

"It'll be some reunion, lady." Garrison kissed her cheek in return. "Okay, Chief. Push off."

As Ewa climbed into the rear seat, and Chief started the engine, Krekeler leaned out of the window. "Captain, one thing. Why did you and Ewa come with those fools and not with these men?"

"They were conscripts in the war," Garrison said. "And they'd just been demobbed. I'm assuming they volunteered for this mission – it is just the mission, isn't it, Actor? Good."

"Ah, I thought it was you they had come for. I should enlist them again, if I were you, Captain. Such loyalty is beyond price. I am grateful that it brought me out of that hellhole too. _Auf wiedersehen._ "

 

Somehow, they had ended up in familiar territory, back in the ruined farmhouse some forty miles from Berlin where they had come to rest during their escape from that last, nearly-disastrous mission. After the last two days, it felt like home. It was also still deserted.

Apparently not entirely trusting its innocent look, Garrison had despatched Actor and Goniff in opposite directions to scout for any signs of human life, all of which could basically be assumed to be hostile.

Despite the suspicion that Garrison had sent him out in order to avoid being alone with him, Actor had been careful, but all he had found was a small camp of refugees, guarded by a couple of Soviet soldiers. They looked to have settled where they were semi-permanently, and he did not think they would stir from their camp as evening drew in.

It was twilight when he arrived back at the farmhouse to find Goniff already snuggled down on the parlour floor. Casino picked up his gun and headed out to take first watch, with the comment that, if Actor wanted to wash, he'd have to pump water in the scullery. And that it was cold.

"Too damn cold for me, mate," Goniff said, from his blankets.

Actor gave him a disgusted look. "Stay downwind, then." It was just as well, though. He needed to talk to Garrison, find out where he stood.

Fiancé, eh? They'd see about that.

As he ducked under the broken door lintel into the kitchen, Garrison came out of the scullery, using a grimy blanket as a towel. He was naked. His eyes met Actor's, and he smiled.

"Nothing stirring?" he asked, making his way over to pick up his clothes, placed neatly on the chair beside the table.

Actor couldn't speak. Desire seared him. He made an inarticulate noise.

Garrison, one foot on the seat of the chair, glanced back at him and nodded towards the scullery. "All yours."

Damn right.

Deliberately, Actor unfastened his belt and unzipped his fly. He was already hard, and the sight of those strong legs and neat buttocks unfolded him from his clothing in moments. He didn't know what Garrison was thinking, didn't care. All that mattered was his own anger and his need.

He won't yell, he thought, as he moved stealthily closer, noting what remained on the table with satisfaction. That'll bring the others, and then he'd have to explain...

He'd make damn sure the blonde bitch heard about it.

She'll never have him. I'll kill her first, and as for him...

He pounced, snaking an arm about Garrison's chest to pinion his arms, the other hand cupping and squeezing that intoxicating rump, biting and kissing his exposed neck and shoulders.

Garrison gasped, and leaned back into his hand. "Ah... Christ, Actor... go... easy... the others... oh God..."

It was probably safe to let him go. Indeed, he could have broken free at any moment, probably without doing Actor any permanent damage. Certainly, he didn't struggle as he was pushed face down over the edge of the table and Actor reached over his prone body for the almost petrified bottle of olive oil. It took him at least twenty seconds to push out the cork with his thumb and spill the stuff over his hand. Smearing it into the inviting body could have been a pleasurable task – for them both – but he had no time to linger over it. If he did not get inside Garrison soon, he was going to come anyway.

He wiped his hand hurriedly over his erection, then ruthlessly shoved Garrison's legs even further apart, dug his fingers into his buttocks to draw them aside, and entered him.

There was absolutely no resistance, just a little whimper, perhaps of pain, perhaps of pleasure, as Actor eased himself into the virgin channel.

He was soft, tight and luscious, sticky with oil. It was all Actor could do not to come with the first knowledge of possession. His rage had died. This was Craig Garrison and he wanted him desperately, loved him even more desperately...

He tried to hold back, to make it last, but the need was too much. He thrust again and again until there was nothing in the world but that hot wet channel gripping him, hot wetness gathering inside him...

He came in a great shudder that seemed to draw his soul from him, then leaned against Garrison's back, chin on his shoulder, pushing hard against the shorter man, unwilling to slip out of him.

The cheeks of Garrison's ass tightened, apparently to the same purpose.

"Press back against me," Actor whispered. "Yess... Again..."

Astonishingly, he was hardening, still inside Garrison, beginning to fill him once more.

And this time, with his need no longer so urgent, he could give care to the other man's pleasure. He reached round his hips to find him half hard.

Left you behind, did I? That won't happen this time. Let me see if I remember how to do this...

 

The sensations from the lengthening of Actor's cock in his guts were indescribable, even more than that first shocking stab into his vitals. He didn't know how he felt about it, couldn't think straight because the pain and pleasure and every point between overwhelmed him, and none of them important compared with the uncontrollable need.

Allowed to move at last, he braced himself on his arms against the table, gave the skilled hands space to caress him.

A more familiar pleasure, reassuring, like the lips on his neck, a counter to his helplessness, the feel of the rough cloth pressed against his back, the knowledge that Actor was still clothed, all the strangeness of what was happening to him.

He'd invited... something. He hadn't expected this.

Unable to stop himself, he thrust down into the tightening hand, almost pulling Actor from his body. Desperate not to lose him, he pushed back hurriedly, only to find the other man had anticipated him. The resulting thrust was deeper than he'd imagined possible, spearing him with ecstasy, as Actor controlled the rhythm of their lovemaking with the movements of his hand, trapping him on a seesaw of pleasure that built until it was agony. Helplessly, he came when Actor's hand demanded, a moment before teeth clamped into his shoulder, and he felt the other man mirror his shudder of pleasure against his spine, warmth spilling deep within his gut.

 

Actor sank to the floor and sat with his eyes closed, taking great gulps of air as if he had been starved of it.

Garrison, who could not remember breathing much in the last few minutes himself, limped over to the chair on which he had left his clothes.

The oilcloth packet lay where he had placed it, half-hidden by his shirt. He shoved it into his pants pocket.

Should have done that in the first place. Too tired. Too interested in washing away that damn place while I could. Should have realised Actor was bound to come looking for me before I heard him. None of this need have happened.

He wiped himself with the blanket, then pulled on the shirt before turning to face Actor. His mind was already tracing the possible consequences, how he could make use of this to take him through to that blank wall beyond which he dared not think. What he couldn't do was let on how deeply he'd been affected. No-one should have that much power over him, and certainly not Actor, whom he could trust with his life but not with his heart.

Except that it was too late.

I'm damned sorry, Roberto. It's just that some things matter more than loving you to distraction.

Actor was still sitting on the floor, but his eyes were open, staring in Garrison's direction.

He's been watching me all the time – but he couldn't have seen the papers—

It made it easier. "Was that meant to punish me?" he asked, after a moment. "If so, you made a lousy job of it."

There was misery on Actor's face. Perhaps it was even real. "If I hurt you," he said stiffly, "then I am sorry."

Garrison shrugged. "I've had worse pain on a bad day on the football field. And you were owed that."

The misery faded into that blank look that maybe meant hurt, or fury, or that Actor was just thinking quickly. "Is that what you think of it? That you owed me a sodomy session for saving your neck? Or was it because you've been fucking that bitch Ewa?"

Fury. And the more furious Actor was, the less likely he was to start thinking with his head instead of his balls.

"Cool it, baby," Garrison answered lightly. "I'm not objecting to what happened, but your timing is lousy." His eyes swept dispassionately over his dishevelled lover. "You'd better clean yourself up. I'm going to get some sleep."

 

They'd been sitting in a Nissen hut at the Berlin airbase for what seemed like hours, waiting for Garrison to return from his interview with the commanding officer. Goniff and Casino were arguing over a game of Gin, but without their usual enthusiasm.

Tired.

Actor hadn't slept for two days, but his thoughts were bouncing around like a squash ball, reverberating off the walls of his mind.

What in God's name had he been thinking of? Well, at least he'd screwed things up for that bitch Ewa – and probably screwed up his own life, too. Garrison hadn't spoken more than half a dozen words to him since then, just turned his back on him and pretended – he was sure it was a pretence – to be asleep. What else could he expect? He'd hurt him, in all the ways possible – but God, he was getting hard just thinking what it had been like—

There was a rush of cold air as Garrison came through the door, still looking battered and exhausted. "I spoke to Chief," he said. "The Krekelers are on their way to the US. Chief says he doesn't need any assistance, but I've arranged with the base commander to have you taken wherever you want to go."

Casino rose to his feet. "What about you?" he asked.

"I have to report back for debriefing."

Casino considered. "I guess. And then?"

Garrison shrugged. "Who knows?" He smiled, and punched Casino's shoulder. "Hey, you keep your noses clean, right? I'll be in touch when I can."

"Listen, Warden, Actor's got this plan an' we think you—"

"Legal?" Garrison interrupted, though the smile was still there.

Goniff spread his hands wide. "Hey, Warden, you know us—"

"Yeah, I do. Just don't get caught, because I can't get you out of stir again."

"Yeah, and who saved your ass this time?"

Actor looked hurriedly away, not daring to catch Garrison's eyes. As it was, he could feel heat beginning to rise from his suddenly-tight collar.

There was a slight pause as Garrison caught his breath. "Casino, I'm grateful, believe me, but don't try it again, okay? Firstly, I can look after myself—"

"Yeah, sure. Just look at you. You ain't fit to be out. You seen a doctor yet?"

Garrison ignored this. "More important, Casino, you've proved you don't need me."

"But Warden, just lissen a minute—"

This was plainly the one thing Garrison wasn't going to do. Actor wasn't sure his intervention would help, but he had to try. "Captain," he said. "May I speak with you privately?"

"You tell him, Actor. He's gonna get killed without us to look after him."

"None of us are going to get killed," Garrison said firmly. "Okay, Actor, let's get this over with."

 

They walked in the sunshine, behind the hangers to avoid the sharp wind. There was so much in Actor's heart that he could not speak. He had never been able to manage Garrison – that was part of his attraction. Now, though, he had also become unreadable. A stranger. Above all, he knew that he could not be conned, trapped into staying. No use taking him in his arms and swearing undying love – not now.

Instead, he offered him a cigarette, lit it from his own. The action calmed his nerves almost as much as the smoke itself. He blew a ring just to show he could do it. "Goniff was right, I do have plans – and expensive tastes."

You, for instance.

"I'm not sure I want to hear this."

"It's simple enough. A great deal of property went missing in the war, and some ex-owners will pay a lot to get it back. We're experts at removing property."

Garrison stared at him, for once taken aback. "Are you suggesting that you'd actually hand it over meekly to the real owners?"

"Not meekly. Reluctantly, perhaps. That's why we need someone to keep us honest."

"And someone to give you a veneer of respectability."

Inwardly, Actor winced. He said: "That would also do no harm."

Garrison chuckled. "That's more like the Actor I know."

"I thought you might find it more acceptable." Actor let a hint of his bitterness show. "Well, what do you think?"

"I'm impressed," Garrison said. "I thought for a moment you'd worked out how to break into the Bank of England."

"Oh, we could do that, too, if I thought you'd agree to it."

This time the laugh was real: a small triumph. Then Garrison said: "You don't need my agreement to anything."

It was the off-handedness that broke Actor's control. "You haven't heard a word I said, have you?" he shouted. "Before God if I thought that tying you up or shooting you through the leg would keep you here for more than a few hours then I would do it. Do you really think we just risked our necks for what Casino calls 'some damn kraut'? Or just so you can screw his beautiful sister?" He knew it was a mistake the instant he said it, but by then it was too late.

"Or just so you could screw me?" Garrison retorted, his eyes suddenly stony. He glanced at his watch. "My plane's due out in five minutes. Say goodbye to the others for me."

As he turned to go, Actor grabbed his arm – the first time he had dared to touch him. "Craig, forget the plan. Just let me come with you. If that means going back to working for the Army, I'll do it."

"No." It was Garrison at his most decisive. "Keep your freedom. You've earned it."

Actor stood and watched him limp towards the aircraft, feeling something die inside him.

Perhaps it was hope.

 

Garrison leaned his head uneasily against the window and stared into the blank cloud-whiteness. He hadn't meant to quarrel with Actor. His words on VE night had been a lifeline in the despair of Donnerswald.

 _"You... you I love..."_

It might have been a con, but it was a sweet one, and the passion was real enough: he had the aches to prove it. So was Actor's shocking jealousy.

We didn't make any promises, except the one I had to break and he must know I wasn't to blame for that.

But Actor hadn't been the only one at fault. Why hadn't he at least told him that there had never been anything between him and Ewa, even if not that the hardest truth he'd ever had to face was that he was in love with him?

The answer lay with his unfinished business, of course, the package buttoned in an inside pocket. Duty, all that he had been taught, urged him to deliver it into official hands and leave justice to others. Not so long ago he would have taken that course without the slightest doubt about its wisdom.

But he was no longer sure who he could trust, outside of four ex-cons, no longer sure that any Army, any Government, would deliver justice when the price to itself would be so high. No longer sure he would not be told to "Shut up, forget it," an order which, as a soldier, he would have no choice but to obey. Hell, they'd make sure he did.

He couldn't let that happen. Nor could he let any of his unit become involved, despite their heartbreaking willingness to follow him after all compulsion had gone, not to mention Actor's last offer, which would have been so tempting in any other circumstances...

An insane, stupid offer – and Actor was neither. So why the Hell would he make it, unless...?

Unless those words on VE night hadn't been a con, and if that, impossible as it seemed, really was the case...

Maybe I haven't blown it. Maybe, just maybe, he'll give me another chance. Afterwards. If there is an afterwards.

 

In London, Colonel Piper took one look at him and bundled him off to hospital. He went without a word of protest, which would bother Piper, who knew him well. The doctors found not only the evidence of Laskovsky's repeated beatings and apparent recent male rape, but of emotional damage and psychological withdrawal that became more apparent as the days passed.

Garrison had seen what happened to men who'd been pushed beyond their limits and was careful not to overplay his hand. It was the hardest con job he'd ever tried, this illusion of breakdown, particularly because it would have been so easy to let it become reality. Nor did he want to end up in what Casino would undoubtedly call a 'nuthouse'. The trick was to be sick enough to be no use to the Army, but not so sick that he appeared a danger to himself or the general public.

So he sat for hours watching the rain or even the blank wall – thinking about Actor, mainly – huddled away from his friends and fellow officers. He wouldn't talk about the beatings, wouldn't talk about the – perceived – rape, wouldn't talk at all about what the Russians had done to him. He spoke, with reluctance, about his unit as if they were friends long dead and about the war not at all.

The nightmares he didn't have to fake.

One night, he slipped into the Chief Psychiatrist's office and found his file. It made interesting reading.

Actor ought to be proud of him. They'd swallowed the deception whole. The only reason he was still here was probably the note from Piper, which read: "Dammit, Doctor, Garrison is one of my most valuable officers. Save him for us if you can."

The copy of a memo addressed to General Meacher caused him grim amusement. It read, in part.

 

 _"...I understand the standing instruction to all Intelligence operatives is not to resist male rape unless there is immediate hope of escape. Captain Garrison seems to have followed this advice and so avoided serious physical injury._

 _Unfortunately, said advice, if anything, exacerbates the mental and emotional consequences. In this case, the trauma appears severe, though the patient's refusal to speak about the rape has turned diagnosis into speculation. It has also frustrated attempts to help him come to terms with it._

 _A common belief among male rape victims is that the rapist must have seen signs of homosexuality in them to provoke the attack. If the victim showed any physical sexual response to the rape and (this is equally common ) it further undermines their confidence in their masculinity._

 _This may account for the final shattering of Captain Garrison's nerve, but it has been made much more acute by the long period of stress indicated by his record. To keep this in layman's terms, you pushed him to his limits and the humiliation of the rape pushed him beyond them. After three years of war he cannot be the only one of your operatives in such a position. In the light of this, you may wish to reconsider your standing advice..."_

 

Thanks, Roberto. You gave them a nice convenient peg on which to hang my breakdown.

The final diagnosis was "battle fatigue", the recommendation that, as he was physically fit again and stable enough to leave a hospital crammed with far more urgent cases, he be asked to resign his commission and be honourably discharged.

It was what he had been aiming for. Now that the moment had come, though, he found himself hesitating.

When he'd applied for West Point, he'd already known that war with Germany was coming, his only fear that it would arrive too soon for him to make a difference.

He'd been so damn naive, taken it all at face value, the assumptions of valour, honour and tradition. War wasn't like that. Yet this still felt like divorce, hurt like divorce.

Well, it had to be done. Whether he failed or succeeded, all responsibility and any dishonour must be his, not the Army's and certainly not his unit's ... though he wanted them with him so damn much. And all he had to do was phone, send a wire...

"Next time you need us, Warden, you holler," Chief had said to him, the radio crackle not disguising the concern in that soft drawl that could be so frightening or so reassuring, depending on which way he intended to throw the knife.

No way, Chief. I'm not going to risk any of you going back to jail. Whatever the consequences, I'm on my own.

He tore out Piper's note, addressed the file to General Meacher, and moved it into the 'Out' tray.

 

When he was told officially, he accepted the decision with no more interest than he had shown in anything else and let them make arrangements to ship him back home to the States.

 

Finally, Actor could no longer stand the lack of news. Unable to resist the temptation, he reached for Army contacts.

No facts, but plenty of rumour.

Garrison was out of the Army, an early discharge on medical grounds, battle fatigue, some said. He'd cracked, anyway. Lost it totally. Maybe a complete breakdown.

Actor believed none of it. Nor did the others.

"Aw, com'on," was Casino's comment.

"Deep cover," Chief said.

Actor nodded. "That's how I see it."

"He said he'd be in touch," Goniff complained.

"He will be," Actor said, but he wasn't sure when. This was plainly a long term assignment.

He'd just have to learn to live without him, and with the pain.

 

Garrison moved stealthily through the shrubbery of the Sussex house that had housed Allied Army Intelligence headquarters since 1942.

He had come here for his first interview with General Freemont, to whom any infantry officer with a record for bravery combined with the ability to speak fluent French and German was a candidate for immediate transfer into Intelligence. It was here, too, that the harebrained plan that had resulted in his team had been hatched. Its Georgian redbrick was painfully familiar; even the guard dogs would recognise him.

In fact, he was counting on it.

He'd been watching it for forty eight hours before he made his first move, making sure of changes in the once familiar routine. Security was far more lax now than the final time he'd come here to be briefed by Meacher, the last of a series of Generals, all sceptical about the "criminal" unit and its commander's reputation for unorthodoxy.

He'd already been inside the house and adjusted the security system which could now be disabled by disconnecting a single wire and re-enabled in the same way. He did that in seconds, and slipped in through the dining room window.

Meacher's office was on the first floor, in a suite with the rest of his quarters. The quickest way to reach it was through the hall and up the main stairs, but there was always an officer on duty in the hall below, if nowhere else. What was more, it was impossible to be silent on the polished marble.

Garrison went up the back stairs. Just over a year ago, an ostentatiously egalitarian General had decreed that everyone, including orderlies, commissary and cleaning staff, was to use the main stairway. This had quickly become fixed in custom, and he knew he was unlikely to encounter anyone. Besides, the uncarpeted floor would give him warning of anyone approaching.

He entered the office through the bedroom. General Meacher, as he knew from having previously read his diary, was in conference, and not expected back until late afternoon. He made the necessary preparations and settled down to wait.

 

Hearing footsteps on the polished wood floor outside, Garrison moved to stand behind the door as it opened to admit General Meacher, who slammed it behind him and flung his overcoat and attaché case on a chair before noticing the intruder.

"Garrison!" he said in astonishment, not at first observing the Colt 1911 A1 pointed directly at his ear. "You're in the States."

"That's what you were supposed to think."

It was now that Meacher took in the gun. "Easy, son. You've been very ill. Suppose you just sit down, let me call a doctor..."

"According to my medical file, I don't have the nerve left to pick up a gun. As you can see, General, that isn't true either. Just turn the key in the lock, then come and sit down at the desk."

"And if I don't?"

"Then I shoot you now."

"Look, son," Meacher said, moving round the desk to sit in the indicated chair. "I don't know what you think your beef is, but why don't you tell me about it?"

Garrison reached out, extracted the General's gun from its holster and placed it at the far side of the huge desk, well out of his reach. He said: "For the last ten years you've acted as a liaison between a group of American and British industrialists broadly in sympathy with the Nazi cause, and German officials. You were instrumental in advice to the US government to refuse entry to Jewish refugees. You've pipe lined war material to German factories, and made arrangements to spirit your contacts to safety—"

"This is complete delusion," Meacher interrupted.

"It's a very solid delusion. Your Nazi contacts didn't trust you. They kept the evidence on hand, just in case you were tempted to betray them."

The bundle hit the desk with a dull thud. Meacher picked it up, glanced at the papers, and tossed them aside. "Forgeries."

"Odd that I found them in a safe in Berlin you'd ordered me to destroy. No doubt because someone else in Allied Intelligence had risked their lives finding out they were there for you."

"So why haven't you handed them over to the appropriate authorities?"

"Because the President and General Eisenhower aren't going to believe my word against yours, given my unit's reputation. Because this is too large a scandal for any politician to want out in the open. Because I don't know who your allies are within the Army, or where you've hidden your Nazi friends.

"So, you're going write a full confession, with a list of your accomplices and where the Nazis are hiding. You can make what excuses you like – I don't really care – but I want that information in Piper's hands."

"Even supposing all this were true – and it isn't – why would I write any such thing?"

The corners of Garrison's mouth were turned down and his lips pressed together in an expression of quintessential stubbornness. "You can't live with your conscience any longer. You're going to confess, try to put some of it right. Then you're going to do the honourable thing."

"I see," Meacher said grimly. "And if I refuse?"

"You know the answer to that."

"You're off the edge, son. Just think about it. If you murder me—"

"How can I murder you? I'm not even here, remember?"

"If you murder me, you'll be in jail within hours, and they'll throw the book at you – if they don't decide you're too crazy to stand trial. Whatever happens, you'll be imprisoned for the rest of your life. Ironic, considering your unit's record."

"You ever take a look at my unit's record, Meacher? A real good look? How many risks they took for their country, for what you've been trying to destroy? Sending them on a suicide mission to save your traitorous hide was your last and biggest mistake."

"Ah, so that's it. I didn't do anything to your men, son. They're still alive, remember that, and that I was the one who went right up to Eisenhower to get them those pardons."

"You could hardly do anything else. Not when you wanted me to get your friend Krekeler out of Donnerswald. But you're right, I don't have courtroom proof. Which is why, whatever happens, you're not going to leave this room alive."

"Then why should I write that so-called confession?" Meacher sat back in his chair and folded his hands on the desk, unthreatening but equally stubborn. "I'm calling your bluff, Garrison. I don't think you'll do it."

"It's your call," Garrison responded. "Just remember that mine wasn't an honourable war. While you've sat behind this desk, I've been killing, so many men that I lost count long ago, brave men, often men simply fighting for their homes and families or just to stay alive, not for your rotten Nazi cause. Have you ever used a garrotte, General, or stabbed a man in the back, or twisted a neck in your bare hands until you felt the bones snap? Have you ever shot a teenage kid through the head because some bastards of your fellow soldiers have blinded, castrated and disembowelled him? After that, putting a bullet into you will be easy, believe me." The soft voice suddenly lost its passion, becoming conversational again. "As I said, it's your call: betray your Nazi friends, or your family."

For the first time, Meacher looked alarmed. "What about my family?"

"Old money, isn't it, General? Family settled in Georgia in what? 1730? Two signatories to the Declaration of Independence among your ancestors. Wife from one of the most distinguished Virginian families. Two sons still at school, one in the Army – outstanding war record in the Japanese theatre – a daughter about to marry a British peer. You can't redeem your honour – or mine, come to that – but you can salvage theirs. If you don't—" Garrison shrugged. "Copies of those papers go to every major newspaper here and in the States, and to the French and Soviet governments. The originals go to Nuremberg, to the War Crimes prosecutors—"

"Damn you, Garrison, you'll ruin them—"

"As you've ruined thousands of lives, killed God knows how many—"

"Who appointed you as judge, jury and executioner?"

Garrison's expression did not change. "You did. You and others like you. You used me, used my men, used the Army and the Government you were supposed to serve for something so foul—" He caught himself up, took a deep, steadying breath. "Quit stalling, General. No-one's going to come to your aid. I disconnected your panic button hours ago. Write the letter, and remember I'll be reading every word."

Meacher shrugged, and picked up a pencil.

"Uhuh, General. With the fountain pen."

Writing the letter took some time, particularly as Garrison made Meacher start over twice, at the appearance of Intelligence code words that signalled it was being composed under duress. The unfinished letters went into his pocket.

At last, though, it was done, and Meacher, at Garrison's instruction, wrote Colonel Piper's name on the envelope and sealed it.

Meacher carefully put the cap back on his pen. "What makes you think any of that is more than imagination? If I was working with the Nazis, would I betray my own accomplices?"

"Not my concern any more. If it isn't true, Piper will find out. It's what he's good at. I can't deal with all of them – only you." Keeping his aim steady on the General, Garrison picked up the other man's gun, cocked it and slid it across the desk.

Meacher ignored it. "Garrison," he said, "you're sick. You must know that. Think very hard about this, son, because—" Suddenly, he was moving, ducking away from Garrison, snatching up the gun and bringing it to bear, his finger jerking at the trigger—

Even if he hadn't been expecting it, Garrison's reflexes would probably have saved him. As it was, he fired at point blank range as Meacher's hand closed on the gun butt.

Almost before the General's body hit the desk, Garrison had taken the gun from his hand and replaced it with his own. The one the General had been holding went into the top drawer of the desk, which was then locked.

If the shot had been heard through the heavy oak door, it would have been muffled enough so there was a chance it would be taken as someone out rough shooting, or a car backfiring, or any one of half a dozen other reasons – but he mustn't count on it. He went out of the General's bathroom window, which had been open all day, up the drainpipe onto the roof, and down the other side.

Once on the ground, he paused just long enough to reconnect the security systems, then strolled casually into the shrubbery, heading not towards the road but out into the woods, where his transport was tied to a tree, browsing unenthusiastically on the fading leaves having finished the oats he'd left for her. "Thought I'd forgotten you, did you?" he asked, as the bay mare nuzzled him. "Let's get you back to your paddock before your owner misses you." He pulled on a cap that would hide his hair and shadow his face, then swung up into the saddle and turned the mare deeper into the woods. If he kept to a reasonable speed, no-one was likely to take any notice of him.

In fact, he didn't see anyone until he was well beyond what would become the search perimeter when Meacher was discovered and even then they were too far in the distance for him to make any impression.

He walked the mare for the last mile, so she was cool enough to be turned straight into the field with the old carthorse and even older Shetland pony, who watched him with interest as he wiped down the tack and replaced it in the – locked – stable.

A half-mile walk took him to where he had hidden the old motor bike, legitimately purchased from someone who probably didn't have legitimate title himself. Helmet and goggles made an even better disguise, though he was no longer thinking about his own safety.

The road seemed to stretch on forever.

He was through the blank wall and there was nothing on the other side. If he allowed himself to think ahead, he'd fall into that nothingness. He had only one reason left to go on and, like everything else, it could turn out to be an illusion.

Perhaps that would be just.

 

Goniff leaned back into his chair and stared at the cheque Actor had put into his hands with profound respect. "Well, I guess the Warden was right. We've proved we can manage without 'im."

Every eye in the room suddenly turned on Goniff.

"Yeah, but for how long?" Casino growled, expressing general opinion.

"Hey, I didn't say I liked it. It ain't no fun without 'im telling me to put things back."

Actor gave him a hard look. "Are you stealing things, Goniff, because if so—"

Chief flipped a warning look at Casino. Actor had become unpredictable recently, and his temper was not to be trifled with.

Somewhat reluctantly, Casino moved to rescue Goniff. "Oh, yeah, Actor, I forgot to tell you. Some dame rang."

"Some dame?"

"Yeah. Had a real sexy voice. Said she was your grandmother."

"My grandmother?"

"Yeah. She have any friends who could be ... maybe ... my great aunts?"

"Yes, all about eighty years old and very formidable. What did she want?"

"Said you were to come and see her at once. Stressed the at once. Said she had something of yours for you to collect."

Actor rose to his feet. "Damn. This I do not need today." He brightened. "Still, it could be a job. She's been putting out feelers for us among her friends."

"Actor, who the Hell is this dame?"

"The Dowager Contessa Marianne di Lorenzo. My grandmother," said Actor. "I'd better go. She isn't used to being kept waiting."

 

The light was fading even this early in the November afternoon and it had started to rain. The road was worse than he remembered too, seeming to wind on forever through greyed olive groves, silver-veiled in mist and falling water. The old house, set back within its spiky crown of cypresses, was unchanged in all the years he had known it. So was Maria, his grandmother's maid, who had grown old and dangerous along with her mistress, about ten years behind her. She was not pleased to see Actor, who she regarded with the same distaste as did the other di Lorenzos, the bastard child who had the indecency to look so much like his grandfather.

Marianne made her entrance almost as soon as the door was safely shut behind him, sweeping down the staircase in a Chinese silk dressing gown that must have cost a small fortune, though he knew she had convinced the occupying German commander of her total poverty; a woman whose charm had never faded even though the remnants of her once-famous beauty had disappeared many years ago.

"Roberto, dear."

He bent to kiss her cheeks. " _Nonna,_ you look wonderful."

"You always were a liar, but thank you all the same." She linked her arm into his. "Come through to the salon with me. Your usual room is ready for you."

" _Nonna,_ I can't stay. If you—"

"Nonsense. Everything is prepared. I must say," she added, "that I do like your young man, Roberto. So polite. Make sure you treat him properly."

He had had no warning. The shock was so great that he was repeating the words in his head in an effort to comprehend them as they entered the salon.

Garrison looked up from where he was sitting by the fire, petting one of the Contessa's pedigree Spinone gundogs.

Actor stood petrified, hearing the door click as it closed behind his departing relative, suddenly realising that, after what had happened at the farmhouse, it was impossible for him to make the first move.

Garrison looked weary and almost ... fragile. Actor had to strangle an overwhelming urge to take him in his arms and rock him like a child.

That might get him knocked flying, or even get him killed. There was a brittleness to Garrison's movements – the way his head had jerked towards the door, his hand towards his shoulder – that made him more dangerous than usual. And he was the most dangerous man Actor had ever known, even more so than Chief.

"You seem surprised to see me," he said now.

"I wasn't expecting you. All the signs were that Intelligence had put you in deep somewhere."

Garrison shook his head. "No. That's all over. Finished, like the war. And, this time ... there's ... something I have to tell you." Actor saw his Adam's Apple move convulsively as he swallowed. "The only thing that's held me together for the last six months is the memory of you telling me you loved me. I didn't really believe it... not then... thought you were conning me... and now... Roberto, if it's too late, if you really were conning me or... if I've killed what you felt for me... I don't know... "

"You blasted fool."

Actor wasn't sure which one of them moved first, but somehow they were in each other's arms. After a while the dog, realising it wasn't going to get any more attention, curled up and went to sleep.

 

Actor had not forgotten that kissing Garrison was the second most pleasurable thing in the world, and the first would be all the better for anticipation. What he had forgotten was the exact taste of his mouth, the feel of the powerful body moving in his arms, the fierce response to his kisses.

After a while, though, he realised just how much of Garrison's weight he was taking, and that, for all the passion of his mouth, his groin was still soft against his thigh.

Gently, he broke the kiss and took his first close look at him. He'd lost weight, even since Donnerswald, and his eyes were not just shadowed but haunted.

Suddenly very frightened, Actor lost control of his tongue. "Dear God, it was a medical discharge, wasn't it?"

"Stop panicking." Garrison rested his head against his shoulder. "I haven't gone over the edge. I'm just tired."

Actor pushed him back a little so he could see his face. "Do the doctors agree with you?"

"Not exactly, but then that was the idea. When you work with one of the world's top conmen, you get to pick up a few pointers."

"What do you mean, 'one of'?" Actor demanded, in lieu of all the questions he wanted to ask, but didn't dare. Even if Garrison wasn't conning himself more than the doctors, there was more to this than that. Much more. And that fragility was real. He was going to have to be very careful how he handled him. "Tired doesn't begin to describe it: perhaps we'd better start with 'exhausted' and work up from there," he said. "I think we'll put you to bed and talk about it later."

"But ... your grandmother ... if she finds out ... about us ..."

"You can't con the Contessa, Craig, and you didn't. Don't look so horrified. She approves of you. No doubt she thinks you might even make an honest man of me." He lifted Garrison's chin and examined his expression. His own was chagrined: "Hell, I thought that that merited a smile, at least."

Garrison shook his head. "Too tired. How in God's name did I fall in love with someone who makes bad puns in eight languages?"

"Nine." Actor paused long enough to let Garrison start a mental count before adding, in German, "Good puns."

And got the smile, to go with those magical words "fall in love" and set his heart singing.

"What's more," he added, switching to French, "I can make love in all of them, though some are much more suitable than others. Come along, _cheri_ , I can't hold you up forever, and you're far too heavy to carry."

 

By the time they got to the bedroom, Garrison was quite literally asleep on his feet. Nor did he wake as Actor undressed him, hands lingering on warm skin, unable to resist kissing him where he was softest and most vulnerable.

He was too damn thin.

It was only as Actor drew up the sheets, determinedly locking away temptation, that his eyes opened.

"Aren't you coming to bed with me?" he asked plaintively.

"I don't think so." Actor tucked the sheets around him. "If I did I would not be able to resist making love to you and I think we would both prefer it if you were awake."

"Oh."

"Yes." Actor kissed him between the eyes. Which, by the time he took his lips away, had closed.

He sat on the bed for a while, watching Garrison sleep, then, with an air of determination, got up and went to find, in order, cold water and his grandmother.

 

He was wading through a ditch full of bodies. The smell was sickening. Though everyone was dead, eyes watched him from everywhere, voices whispered beyond his hearing.

He was searching for something, searching desperately, but he didn't know what it was and somehow he was sure he would never find it, though he had to keep looking.

There was movement under his feet.

As he jumped back, the bodies rose up, trailing spilled guts and splintered bone. They had faces he knew, remembered, as they burned into blackness and the world was full of the smell of roasting meat. They were crying for him to kill them, and he was firing again and again and they still wouldn't die...

"Craig! Craig, for God's sake wake up. It's all right, sweetheart, it's not real."

It was the only voice left.

There were arms about him, and the voice went on, crooning endearments in half a dozen languages. He clung on desperately, praying for its reality. So often in his dreams Actor had faded away, turned into some monster or, worst of all, died as he touched him.

Slowly, he remembered where he was. "Damn," he said, freed himself from Actor's arms and lay back against the pillows. "Sorry."

Actor got up and crossed the room, returning with an exquisite cut glass goblet into which he had poured a generous measure of brandy.

Garrison shook his head. "I'll get drunk. Empty stomach."

Actor's eyes narrowed. "Empty stomach? I know that Grandmother fed you."

He tried to make a joke of it: "I wasn't hungry. The dog was."

" _Merda!_ The dog is spoiled enough, and you are far too thin."

"It looked so mournful."

"They're bred to look mournful." Actor took his hands and wrapped them around the glass. "You don't have to drink it all, _caro_ , but it will make you feel better. Now," he reseated himself on the edge of the bed. The panic had faded from his expression but, for all that look of calm assessment, there was real worry in the oak-brown eyes. "I presume," he said, "that this is one of the reasons the doctors didn't agree with your self-diagnosis."

"Probably." Actor's steady gaze was having a most unnerving effect on Garrison's innards. He sipped at the brandy in the hope it might calm them. "D'you think you'd do any better?"

"Perhaps, given a little honesty."

Garrison's heart jumped. He took another gulp of brandy. "We can try. Let's see. God knows, no-one should feed your vanity but..." He reached out to trace a finger down Actor's profile, "...you really are extraordinarily good-looking." He stroked the outline of his lips, then slid the hand down his neck to the first button of his shirt.

Which was when Actor gripped his wrist firmly and moved the hand back to the brandy glass. "No," he said. "I mean, yes, I am incredibly handsome and it is just as well that you appreciate me, but no, you are not going to con me twice. You are going to tell me about those documents you found in the safe in Berlin – the ones you dragged us all over Germany to retrieve from that farmhouse. Yes, I know I was slow. Put it down to worry, or jealousy, or just plain lust – but I'm not going to be put off now. Drink your brandy if it helps you talk, but you are going to have to trust me, because I am not going to take no for an answer."

"Of course I trust you," Garrison said. "You know I trust you."

"Then tell me."

The blank wall was back, just when he had thought it was finally behind him forever. He closed his eyes and willed it to disappear, but it wouldn't go.

"Dear God in Heaven, what is wrong with you?" Actor asked in alarm. "I knew I should have followed you to London."

"That... would have been disastrous," Garrison said, suddenly imagining Actor storming into the hospital, desperate with fear and worry or, even worse, conning his way to an interview with his doctors, and hearing his lovemaking described as rape—

He said: "The papers are in my jacket pocket. I'm surprised you didn't find them when you undressed me."

"I had other things on my mind," Actor said, "but yes, I found them. One moment."

He went to the fireplace, retrieved the familiar envelope from where it was lodged behind the hideous marble and ormolu clock on the mantleshelf, and gave it to Garrison.

Who examined it closely. It was still sealed. When he opened it, the hair tucked into the end of the papers was as he had placed it.

He looked at Actor, "Why didn't—?"

"Because I also trust you."

It took more courage than he'd known he had left, but he put the papers in Actor's hands, along with their future. "You'd better read them."

 

Watching Actor's face as he read the documents with the sort of care he normally reserved for valuing diamonds, Garrison saw his own reactions mirrored in the tightening of lips, the small quirk of an eyebrow. Once, he'd found him inscrutable; now it was clear that he was shocked and furious.

"Dear God," he said at last. "Dear God. 'There are many in the United States who will be glad to see the end of Jewish domination. Even more than yours, our country is in need of the cleansing of undesirable elements.' How many of those 'undesirable elements' did he push into the front line to be slaughtered, d'you suppose?"

"Too many. In the end, it was nearly us."

Actor turned to look at him, his eyes cold, expression implacable. "He will wish he had succeeded. I will call the others—"

"Actor—"

"You will stay here. Grandmother will take care of yo—"

"Actor, Meacher's dead."

 

The words shouldn't've shocked him so much, knowing Garrison as he did. "How?"

Garrison's voice was flat, his reporting-to-superiors voice, and the one he used when he was in agony inside: "You won't have seen the reports yet, but they found his body in his private office at the Sussex HQ, shot through the head at point blank range, with a gun in his hand and a letter confessing everything and naming names. That won't be reported, of course, but I suspect Piper has the whole of US and UK Intelligence humming."

"A confession?" Actor glanced down at the papers in his hands. "Was that necessary?"

"What you're holding wouldn't be impossible to forge, given the right contacts."

"It was where and how you found them that mattered. You should've shown them to me at once. I would've backed—" He stopped. What good would his word have been? "I see. So why did our wonderful General write this... confession?"

"To save his family from the effects of that, and because he was stalling while he looked for the opportunity to take me out."

The man had been a fool in every way. "Who actually pulled the trigger?" Actor asked, though he knew.

"I did. He had a choice between going through with it and trying to kill me – or at least, to make me incriminate myself by killing him."

"Are you incriminated?" Actor kept his voice mild, as if the answer wasn't important, though he was already wondering how quickly they could be on an aircraft to South America.

"Of course not. I was wearing gloves, and the gun I used came from his desk drawer. I switched it with the one from his holster—"

Actor let out a heavy breath of sheer relief and stopped listening. Kneeling, he shoved the papers between two of the logs in the fireplace, and watched them as they flared. When he was sure that there was nothing left, he turned abruptly and strode over to the bed, caught Garrison's shoulders and forced him to look into his face. "It is over," he said. "But I am very, very angry with you for doing this to yourself. I could have killed him without a qualm. Chief would have enjoyed it—"

"That's why it had to be me."

" _Merde._ Thank God you had enough sense left to come to me."

"I... there was nowhere else... He – Meacher – called me a murderer, an executioner..."

"And who was he to—?"

"He was right," Garrison interrupted harshly. "I'm both. And I... wasn't sure... even you... would take me in with so much blood on my hands."

For most of his life, words had been Actor's shock troops. Now they deserted him. All he could do was take those supposedly bloody hands in his and kiss them frantically.

"The war's over, Actor." Garrison's voice was flat, almost lifeless. "It's left me not knowing how to do anything but kill."

Now, Actor found words. "Nothing but kill? You speak French and German like a native, your Italian needs just a little polishing to be the same, you can navigate a boat and fly a plane and, dammit, work a con nearly as well as I can. If I was less perfect, you'd make me feel inadequate. But more than anything else – and listen to me, _mon ami_ , for this is very important - you can take a quartet of losers, and give them a purpose, give them the confidence to accomplish the impossible by having confidence in them, make them honest simply to please you, give them back their pride—"

"You did all that yourselves," Garrison interrupted.

"No. Without you we would still be that bunch of losers. In jail. And there wouldn't three men less than fifty miles from here who would follow you through all the circles of Hell, whatever you had done, and count themselves lucky to be with you." His emotions were too great for him to continue in English. _"Quant à moi..."_ He kissed Garrison's hands again, held them against his cheek. _"Tu es mon coeur et mon âme."_

"That's really how you see me?" Garrison asked, in astonishment, slipping easily into the same language.

Actor nodded solemnly.

"Because that's not what you're getting, Roberto. Seriously, it took the last strength I had to decide to come here."

"Seriously, you need someone to lean on right now, _cheri._ I suppose I'd better enjoy it while I can, because it's not likely to last very long. I suspect you'll be ordering us about again within a few months."

"Maybe." Garrison sounded unsure. "Until then, it's your play."

"Ah, the Bank of England job then." Actor's delighted and delightful smile spread across his face. "Oh, but that is wonderful. I did not expect to hear you laugh for days yet. In the meantime, do you want my company for the rest of the night?"

"You know I do. So long as it's not just company."

 

He watched Actor undress with gathering excitement, his eyes lingering on the powerful muscles of chest and thigh, highlighted by the glow of the fire. Actor was so tall that he looked slim until you saw him undressed – or in combat, when—

Bad memories. Forget them. Concentrate on the long legs, the classic profile outlined against the flames, on the hollows shadowed with dark hair and the stirring within them.

Fully naked now, Actor turned to face him, flaunting the size of his erection against narrow hips.

Vanity, thy name is Actor.

It occurred to Garrison, perhaps belatedly, that in trying to keep Actor from knowing what he had been planning, he had allowed him too much control over the physical side of their relationship. Time, maybe, to seize the initiative.

The thought coiled desire tighter in his groin.

As Actor bent over him, he reached up, grabbed his arm and pulled with all his strength, tumbling him onto the bed and pinning him down by lying across his belly.

The moment he felt Garrison's mouth begin to travel along the sensitive skin of his inner thighs, Actor relaxed, his knees falling farther apart to give the other man greater access. Lying against the pillows, he let his hand rest on the curve of Garrison's back, and waited to see what he would do next.

Fingers slid though his pubic hair to cup and weigh his balls, as if Garrison was taking stock of what was on offer. Unworried about a possible adverse judgement, Actor silently savoured the exploration until, without any warning, he was stroked from root to tip by a gentle tongue. Deliberately, he gave a gasp of pleasure, then said, into the pause, "Yes. Again. More..."

Garrison lapped at him like a cat, becoming more confident with each moan and shudder of pleasure from the body held under the curve of his own.

"More... Oh, more... I'm not going to break... oh God, please..."

The delectable touch ceased. Garrison lifted his head and twisted to grin at him. "Please? I think I like the sound of that."

Actor wasn't thinking any more. "Have pity... don't stop... please, oh Mary Mother of God, don't stop now..."

"That'll do." Garrison hesitated, perhaps scared of the size of Actor's erect member, or just unnerved by the strangeness of the situation, then, with characteristic decisiveness, he dropped down and took in the whole length in a single, smooth motion.

His inexperience didn't matter, the slight clumsiness thrilling Actor with the certainty that his lover had never done this to another man, as much as by the swift response to his own noises of encouragement.

Unable to control himself any longer, he thrust upwards, and Garrison accepted him, caressed him, and drew all his being into union with his warm mouth. Lost within it, he came far too soon.

When he caught up with his breath and his wits, he found Garrison grinning down at him.

"You look like the cat that—"

"Don't say it," Garrison said, so Actor drew him down to kiss him instead.

"Thank you," he whispered against his mouth. "I would not have asked you to do that, much as I wanted it."

"It was okay, then?"

"It was wonderful."

"Yeah, sure. I know the difference between that and what you did for me. You'll have to teach me."

"Oh, don't tempt me, _mio tesoro_ , or I shall indeed teach you exactly how to please me, so much that you will be of no use to anyone else."

The possessiveness startled Garrison. "Oh, and who taught you?" he asked, as he tried to work out his reaction to it.

Actor's expression closed. "You don't want to know."

"Why not? Do you think it'll shock me?"

"Probably."

"After what I've seen, what I've done?"

Actor sighed, and said: "When I was fifteen, my mother married an American, the last of a long line of lovers. I went with them to Chicago, and hated it. It was plain that they did not want me, so I took off back to France. I had no money, no skills except language... and when I was cold, had nothing to eat... Well, there was always an alternative— You are shocked."

"No," Garrison said fiercely. "It just hurts to think of you—"

"Shhh. That was over twenty years ago. It was just one winter, while I learned other ways of surviving. But I also learned that sex between men has its own pleasures."

Garrison chuckled. "'Pleasures' is right. What I didn't realise was how much I was going to enjoy sucking you. But then I didn't think I'd enjoy being buggered, either."

"God, I'm sorry about that. I wasn't thinking about your pleasure at all, just about how much I wanted you and how scared I was that that bitch Ewa Krekeler—"

"That's enough, dammit!" Garrison had started to move as he spoke, and before he had finished, his forearm was jammed up against Actor's throat, his body pinning the other man to the bed.

Wisely, Actor lay absolutely still. A small increase in pressure and he would be unconscious, while if it were applied for much longer, he would be dead.

"You're the one who's been talking about trust," Garrison growled. "Will you stop being so insanely jealous? She isn't a bitch, but I didn't touch her, didn't want to. All I could think about was you and how good it had been."

Actor gurgled theatrically, and Garrison eased the pressure enough to let him talk. What he said was: "That makes it worse. I hurt you for no reason."

"Roberto, would you fuckin' listen to what I say? I'm not stupid, and I'd've had to have been damned stupid to walk naked across that kitchen without anticipating the consequences. I don't know what you're worrying about. I'm not the one who chases everything with tits – and, presumably, balls."

There was a long pause. Finally, Actor said, "I am fifteen years older than you."

"Fourteen."

"Pedant. Fourteen, if you must. In ten, fifteen years time... I shall be getting old, and you..."

Garrison did not push him further. In those few words, Actor had laid his soul bare.

Even his vanity is a bluff. I didn't expect him to need reassurance, but...

"While I was waiting for you," he said, "your Grandmother—"

"Christ, what has she been saying?" Actor asked in real alarm.

"Easy, sweetheart. She showed me some photographs of your grandfather. You're very like him."

"A terrible family scandal. My father outraged everyone by naming me after him."

Not to mention outraging everyone by his choice of mistress. The Contessa had been scathing about Actor's mother; "French hussy. Called herself an actress, but really little more than a whore..." and about her son's infatuation, ended abruptly by his death in the Great War.

"I think," she had also said, "that Roberto still believes all women are like her."

They'd have to talk about it, but now was not the time.

"He was maybe seventy when the last photograph was taken?"

"Probably."

"Even then, he was one of the most handsome men I've ever seen. Bar one. In thirty years time the women will still be swarming around you like flies."

"And there will be precious little I can do with them." All the same, Actor had begun to relax.

"Does that mean that I'll finally be able to trust you out of my sight?" Garrison asked, with mock-wistfulness.

"Ha!" Actor said, gripping his arms and suddenly rolling him down to the bed, where he pinned him triumphantly before kissing him. "You know perfectly well that I am totally besotted with you."

"God alone knows why."

"Then I wish he'd tell me. Is it my impeccable taste or just innate masochism?" Gently, Actor took Garrison's chin in his fingers and moved it back and forth, considering. "Well, from one angle, you have a profile that might be more at home on a gargoyle but shift it just so... ah, beautiful. Your eyes that change like the sea, and this dimple, so," he kissed it gently, "and your lovely neck..." His lips ran on down Garrison's body, trailing fire. "Your strong arms... and these neat nipples – just the right amount of hair –"

"Roberto..." Garrison whispered helplessly.

"Not forgetting your tight little ass – such a temptation – but then I had not seen these..." His hand cradled Garrison's genitals admiringly, before he bent to lay feather-kisses on them.

With nothing left in his mind but the need for closer union, Garrison's hips thrust upwards in a silent plea for action, but Actor drew back and laughed softly. "So impatient..." the dark voice teased. "I could suck you, yes, or hold you between my thighs, but wouldn't you rather fuck me? Ah, yes, but I also want you inside me—"

It was too much. Garrison came in a long groan of pleasure, leaving Actor amazed that he could do this with little more than words.

He shifted up the bed and held him close, waiting for him to return from wherever he'd gone.

After a while, Garrison said: "Damn. That was not what I had in mind."

Actor hugged him tightly in apology. "Nor I. Maybe in the morning, though Grandmother is most insistent about punctuality for breakfast. And this time, you eat," he added grimly.

"Worrier." In an effort to side-track him from that train of thought, Garrison asked, "Do you often make love in that weird mixture of French and Italian?"

"'French for love, Italian for passion'... but, to be honest, you strip everything from me except my childhood languages. And don't think I've been diverted. Sleep, then eat."

"With maybe loving in between?"

"Maybe."

"Sure you want to stay? It may get noisy."

Actor wrapped arms and legs about him in answer. "I am very sure. Yell all you like. I'll be here for you. For as long as you want me."

 

The villa Actor had rented as an HQ had a paved courtyard that formed a suntrap, and the team had taken to spending their mornings there, sprawled in the winter sun and tossing conversation back and forth as they used to do in their ready quarters in England though, as Goniff said, even in November it was a damn sight warmer.

Today, Actor's non-appearance had formed the main topic of conversation. Casino and Goniff were of the opinion that his so-called Grandmother was really some beautiful woman he wanted to keep for himself, but Chief showed a surprising reluctance to believe it.

"What d'you suppose is delaying him now?" Goniff asked idly.

"His granny ate him," Casino said, with a snigger.

At that moment they heard the outer door slam.

"Must be him now."

Chief's head was cocked, listening. "He ain't alone."

Goniff grinned. "Answer to your prayers, Casino." He raised his voice. "Hey, Actor, you brought your granny back with you?"

"Actor, I think maybe someone better test Goniff's eyesight," a familiar voice observed from beyond the door.

" _That's_ not Actor's granny—"

Casino was through the door in a flash, Goniff at his heels, but Chief still beat them to it. They hit Actor and Garrison full tilt, which led to a certain amount of name calling and excused a lot more hugging.

"You look like you've just gotten back from a tour of Hell," Chief said bluntly to Garrison with a flicker of accusation in Actor's direction.

"Yeah, but they paroled me for good behaviour," Garrison told him.

"The duration and six months, huh?" Casino asked.

"In good company," Garrison confirmed. His eyes met Actor's. "In the very best company there is."

 

The End


End file.
